DR2: The Cross of Changes, book II
by Nick Midian
Summary: The Sequel and Prequel to 'Dark Reflection' continues. In 1999, Xander becomes a vampire and in 2002, the game against the Archangels and the Slayerettes starts... with a bang.
1. Part 1 of 8

DR2 - The Cross of Changes by Nick Midian, Book II, part 1 of 8   
  
Written by Nick Midian   
  
Content beta-reading and storyline suggestions by Duncan  
English grammar, spelling, slang, Highlander continuity and general corrections   
by Theo  
French slang, content beta-reading and storyline suggestions by Mash  
French slang by Alan  
  
  
EMAIL: jcaballero@euskalnet.net  
  
WEBSITE: http://www.angelfire.com/tv2/thedarkages  
  
SPOILERS: For Buffy the Vampire Slayer: 3rd season, BUT no Xander/Willow kissing   
and no Lover's Walk (welcome to the wonderful State of Denial, Land of   
'Shippiness). Hmmm, I've messed with the third season's timeline to accommodate   
it to my necessities. Let's just say that 'Band Candy' happened a lot later than   
it did, around the first days of February, OK?  
For Highlander: None really, the characters of the TV series and films are only   
tangentially mentioned. You just need to know the basics of Highlander-style   
immortality, BUT I've always thought that whole 'Immortals have no parents and   
are found in a little basket' is a... um, the Spanish word for it is 'chorrada',   
so let's just ignore it, OK?  
KEYWORDS: Romance, Angst, Action-adventure, Violence, Alternate Universe,   
Crossover.  
RATING: PG-13 with some mild R parts for violence and sexual innuendo.  
DISCLAIMER: This story has been written with no intention of profit, merely for   
the pleasure of writing and sharing it.  
The concept and characters of BTVS (Buffy, Angel, Cordelia, Xander, Willow, Oz,   
Giles, Joyce, Spike, Drusilla, Snyder, Faith, Harmony, Lyle Gorch, Quentin   
Travers and the rest) are intellectual and legal property of Joss Whedon, Warner   
Brothers, Mutant Enemy, etc. Also, the concept of Highlander and the characters   
mentioned here (Duncan MacLeod, Amanda Darieux, Richie Ryan, Joe Dawson and the   
Society of Watchers) are the property of Panzer-Davis and Rysher Entertainment.  
Michael Deveraux, Rachel Curran, Crystal Parker, Kyle White Owl, Robert   
Coltrane, Elvis the Dog, Broderick Egoyan, Damon Frost, Mr. Smith, the World   
Committee for Civil Defense and the rest are my own creation.  
All the songs and lyrics here are used without permission, they are copyright of   
their respective rights owners.  
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Please, understand that English is not my native language, so   
any grammatical or spelling errors are my fault, not of any one of my wonderful   
beta-readers. If you're thinking of sending any flames, please be kind with me.   
I'm a grown man, but I still can cry like a child, believe me.  
Additional Author's Note: The songs performed by Oz's band are 'Loli Jackson'   
and 'Serenade' by Dover. It appears courtesy of Subterfuge records. All rights   
reserved, yadda, yadda, yadda...   
SUMMARY: After the events in 'Dark Reflection' a new threat menaces both the   
Slayerettes and the Archangels as new and old enemies come to Sunnydale, merging   
past and present. This time, it's something personal - ta-da-da-dam!!! (sorry,   
but I just had to say that)  
  
And now, on with the show. Fasten your seat belts ladies and gentlemen, because   
it's going to be a long, hard and jumpy ride...   
  
~~~~~~  
  
The cast for Book II  
  
  
Nicholas Brendon as Xander Harris  
Charisma Carpenter as Cordelia Chase  
  
Sarah Michelle Gellar as Buffy Summers  
David Boreanaz as Angel  
Alyson Hannigan as Willow Rosenberg  
Seth Green as Daniel 'Oz' Osborne  
Anthony Stewart Head as Rupert Giles  
Kristine Sutherland as Joyce Summers  
  
Matthew Perry as Michael Deveraux  
Paula Trickey as Rachel Curran  
James Marsters as Spike  
Nikki Cox as Crystal Parker  
David James Elliott as Kyle White Owl  
Elvis the Dog as Himself  
  
Eliza Dushku as Faith Adams  
Donald Sutherland as The Old Chess Player, Broderick Egoyan  
Sebastian Spence as Damon Frost  
Avery Brooks as Mr. Smith  
  
Mercedes MacNab as Harmony Kendall  
Armin Shimerman as Principal Snyder  
Amy Chance as Aphrodesia  
Persia White as Aura  
  
Alan Rickman as Conrad Swann  
Wesley Snipes as Talon Pantera  
Dennis Rodman as Rush Pantera  
Tom Berenger as Colonel Cabbot Ashe  
Michael Ironside as the Sergeant  
Trevor Goddard as Backlash  
Shaquille O'Neal as Beast  
Jet Li as Bushido  
  
with  
  
Kevin Spacey as Robert Coltrane  
Nicholas Lea as Jonah Whalls  
and  
Catherine Zeta-Jones as the Lady in Red  
  
~~~~~~  
  
BOOK II: Games People Play  
  
  
All warfare is based on deception.  
  
--"The Art of War", Sun Tzu  
  
~~~~~~  
  
INTERLUDE II: For whom the bell tolls  
Sunnydale, California. February 13, 1999. 6:56 a.m.  
  
Take a look to the sky just before you die  
It is the last time you will  
Blackened roar, massive roar fills the crumbling sky  
Shattered goal fills his soul with a ruthless cry  
  
Stranger now, are his eyes, to this mystery  
He hears the silence so loud  
Crack of dawn, all is gone except the will to be  
Now he will see what will be, blinded eyes to see  
  
"For whom the bell tolls", Metallica  
  
  
Imagine that you die.  
  
And imagine that death is like being back in your mother's womb, your inner   
being bathed in the amniotic fluid of eternity.  
  
No self-consciousness. No measure of time. No present, past or future.  
  
No physical awareness of your own body. No sight. No hearing. No taste. No   
touch. No smell.  
  
Just a feeling of rightness, that can't be expressed with words.  
  
Absolute peace, and total calm.  
  
There's no cold. No heat. No light. No darkness.  
  
Nothing. Just you, and the void of the after-life.  
  
No worries. No sorrows. No fear.  
  
Just imagine how it would be.  
  
And now imagine that, just when you thought that you could even enjoy it, that   
somehow this is the Paradise you were promised when you were alive (a time so   
long ago, that you almost can't remember it anymore), something rips you away   
from it.  
  
Something.  
  
And unexpectedly, in the space of a nanosecond, everything changes. You're   
falling at the speed of light. You still can't feel your body, you can't explain   
it, but you can feel it.  
  
And then your being, your consciousness, your soul for lack of a better term, is   
suddenly assaulted by a thousand combined sensations that pierce it like sharp,   
pointed needles.  
  
And your mind, that little piece of self-awareness that still manages to   
remember who you are, spins around at such speed that everything becomes   
confused and miasmatic.  
  
The heat freezes. The cold burns. The darkness blinds. And the light...  
  
The light dies.  
  
And then pain. Pain as you couldn't possibly have imagined before.  
  
If you had flesh it would be burning, melting away from your bones, leaving them   
white and clean.  
  
If you had bones.  
  
If you had lungs, you would be screaming until your throat bled from the effort.  
  
If you had a throat.  
  
If you had a heart, you'd feel it beating at such speed that you'd think it   
would be about to explode, as it pumps your blood inside your veins, the red and   
vital liquid boiling inside them.  
  
If you had blood.  
  
And then, as everything changes, you feel yourself changing too.  
  
You die a thousand deaths in the blink of an eye. You are reborn from them all a   
little different.  
  
Then something worms its way inside you. Like a parasite, like the larva of some   
hideous prehistoric insect, it nestles inside you and imprints your being with   
its preternatural and vicious mark.  
  
As its poison fuels your change, you can feel the creature's black and green   
slime oozing into your innermost core, covering everything, trying to corrupt   
and finally banish – destroy – your soul, the little nook inside your being   
where you keep safe the contents that make you you.  
  
Imagine that, as the pain reaches new peaks of intensity, you're given the gift   
of feeling your body again and that, at least, you can voice your suffering. And   
you cry. And you scream. And you weep and you beg.  
  
But nobody's there to hear you.  
  
There's only you, the pain... and the demon.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
As she turned around under the covers of her bed for what seemed like the   
one-thousandth time, Cordelia sighed with something that was a curious mix of   
desperation, exasperation and resignation. Something with too many 'ations', for   
her liking.  
  
Desperation because, even when the night sky outside her window was already   
beginning to be lit up by the first rays of sunlight on that Saturday morning,   
she still hadn't managed to get a wink of sleep. Her eyes were reddened, and a   
little swollen by the lack of slumber.  
  
Exasperation because she couldn't believe what were the real reasons behind her   
insomnia, because she couldn't get the image of certain dark-haired boy out of   
her mind. Because it was very hard to accept, that the King of Cretins was the   
reason why she was feeling like a piece of absolute and total crap.  
  
And resignation because, as had been more and more usual lately, she had no   
other option but to face the fact that she had fallen for Xander Harris, Master   
of Lameness. And that she had fallen hard.  
  
The previous night, when he had stormed out of the library in fury, leaving a   
group of surprised and bewildered friends behind him and a little trail of steam   
coming out of his ears, she had realized something very important.  
  
She had hurt him badly and deeply, in a way she hadn't even thought it possible   
she could.  
  
It was strange even to think about it. She had hurt Xander. She had said and   
done something that, after years of verbal matches and pointless childish   
fights, had pierced through his carefully self-constructed walls of sarcasm and   
acid humor and drawn blood.  
  
She had hurt him.  
  
She wasn't very sure how, when or even why. All she knew was that one moment   
they were making jokes because he had messed up, as usual. And a second later   
she was looking at his brown eyes, usually so warm, so deep, as he said the   
b-word with more venom and hate than what she had ever believed possible.  
  
Of course, it all had gone to hell right then.  
  
It didn't matter about the demon they were supposed to be researching. It didn't   
matter about the people staring at them in uncomfortable and embarrassed   
surprise. There was only the two of them and that horrible, vicious need to hurt   
each other as deeply and painfully as possible.  
  
And God knew they had given each other a run for their money.  
  
His last words were still carved into her memory, almost with fire.  
  
'So you want to have a perfect boyfriend? You want somebody to worship and adore   
you as if you were the goddamn center of the entire universe? That's fine with   
me!! You can go out and search for one, because we're finished!! Do you hear me,   
Princess Cordelia?!? We're damn well over!!'  
  
He had then stormed off, taking his jacket from the back of the chair from where   
it was hanging with so much rage that the chair had practically flown back and   
fallen to the floor, with a deafening clatter of wood against floorboard.  
  
He had left her suddenly numb and cold, looking at his retreating back as he   
stalked away along the hallways of the high school. Running away from her.  
  
Her feelings right then were what had stopped her from running after him.   
Curiously, it hadn't been her foolish pride or some stupid sense of superiority   
over him. It had been the fact that, suddenly, she had felt as if there was   
something lost to her. As if something was missing, gone forever.  
  
Xander had broken up with her.  
  
They would not be together anymore.  
  
No more sweet kisses in the closet. No more smiles in the sun-filled parks and   
beaches, when he looked at her as if she was the most important thing in the   
world. No more exchanged looks, as if they were sharing a secret that nobody   
else in the world knew. No more... them.  
  
It was weird. It was ridiculous. It was odd.  
  
As she'd let herself fall onto the nearest chair, because her legs couldn't hold   
her up on her feet anymore, a thousand voices had spoken their unasked opinion   
inside her mind.  
  
Her mother told her not to worry, that it had been painfully obvious to   
everybody that this was the way it would end eventually. They were just too   
different, coming from such extremely different worlds, with vastly different   
hopes and goals. In the end, she would be better off without him.  
  
She'd wanted to tell her that they weren't so different. That, in the depths of   
their souls, they had discovered that they shared the things that mattered the   
most.  
  
But, of course, her mother wasn't here now. She would probably be lying on her   
bed, with a cold gauze over her eyes and a large number of sorrow-erasing   
capsules dissolving inside her stomach.  
  
In her mind, her father had just patted her on the top of the head as if she   
were some kind of expensive dog and offered her his credit card. 'Here you go,   
little princess, buy yourself something pretty.'  
  
She had wanted to tell him that this wasn't one of those situations that could   
be fixed with an expensive gift. That even she, who was so spoiled and   
conceited, was getting tired of that.   
  
That, for once, she would like him to offer her some real comfort and love.  
  
But, of course, he wasn't here now either. He was rarely around, anyway .  
  
Harmony, of course, was laughing. "I can't believe it, he broke up with you.   
That's what happens when you begin to waste your time with a bunch of losers –   
you become one of them."  
  
She had wanted to tell her that things weren't as she or the other sheep thought   
they were. That the world was larger and more frightening that they believed it   
could be, and that the people around her weren't losers.  
  
They were brave, and funny, and loyal, and they were heroes. And they were the   
only people that had really accepted her. That they were her friends, and that   
she was proud of calling them that.  
  
But, of course, even Harmony wasn't here now. And Cordelia was glad she wasn't,   
because she would've probably slapped her if she tried to put one of them down   
again.  
  
The feeling of a pair of delicate hands on her shoulders had then brought the   
cheerleader out of her reverie, and she'd raised her eyes from the double door   
of the library to find Willow's worried sea-green stare looking down at her.  
  
"Are you alright, Cordelia?" she had asked her, with real concern in her voice.  
  
=Life flows through very weird channels, and that's an understatement,= was the   
thought that had run through her mind. =If somebody had told me only one year   
ago there would come a day when I'd consider Willow Rosenberg one of my closest   
friends, and that I'd seek and find comfort from her, I'd have laughed right in   
his face.=  
  
But here it was, as true as the fact that she was feeling her heart breaking in   
two, crumbling into pieces by the same man that had managed to melt it for the   
first time.  
  
"What just happened?" she had asked the red-haired girl in a low tone, still not   
very sure of what had happened barely moments ago.  
  
Sharing a quick look with Giles and after receiving a silent nod of agreement   
from the British librarian, Willow had helped her to her feet, gently but   
unmistakably taking her to the privacy of Giles' office, leaving the rest of the   
gang in peace to continue with their work.  
  
Helping her to the couch and kneeling down beside her, Willow had looked   
straight into her hazel eyes. "You and Xander have just had a fight...again.   
Don't worry, Cordy, I'm sure that he didn't really mean any of that. He was   
simply furious, and you know that he just doesn't think straight when he's this   
way."  
  
She had looked at the redhead in silence for a moment. "Are you sure? 'Cause   
I've never seen him like that."  
  
Willow's silence had told her more than what any words could have done. She   
hadn't ever seen him like that, either. "What have I done, Willow?"  
  
She hadn't seemed to have an answer for that, either.  
  
So she had just lain on Giles' couch for a while, trying to fight the tears that   
were coming to her eyes. Wondering what she had done, what he had done, what   
they had done – if there was still time to fix it, if it would be worth the pain   
to fight for whatever it was they'd had together.  
  
Curiously, this was the only question she had an answer to.  
  
Yes, it was worth it.  
  
The time had passed slowly, while she'd listened to the gang's soft whispers in   
the library. They had finally gotten a clue, the demon would be probably hiding   
in the town's rubbish dump and Buffy was going to go there to have a look, after   
calling Angel for help.  
  
Buffy hadn't seemed very eager to go out on this particular mission, but   
Cordelia couldn't blame her. If there was one thing you could say about being a   
Slayer, it was that it was hell on a girl's wardrobe.  
  
As she'd heard how they softly gathered what the blonde Slayer was going to   
need, Cordelia had felt sympathetic towards Buffy. Her life had been far from   
easy in the last few years; first the whole Angelus thing, her running away from   
Sunnydale and the pain of her return, then Angel's own (and literal) comeback   
from Hell, and Faith...  
  
As she lay there on the couch thinking about the fallen brunette Slayer, she had   
felt a strange sensation of uneasiness engulf her whole being. Something was   
wrong, and it was going to get worse.  
  
What, she didn't know, but she was sure of it.  
  
And now, almost the next day, as the light of morning slowly filtered into her   
room through the curtains of her bedroom, that sensation came back with a   
vengeance.  
  
Propping herself up on her elbow, Cordelia looked at the glowing red numbers of   
her digital alarm clock. A few minutes past seven in the morning. Too early to   
get up from bed on a Saturday. Too early to call anybody. Too early to do   
anything, other than stay in bed and keep on worrying.  
  
She was going to drive herself crazy if she did that.  
  
She took her cordless phone from its cradle and looked at the glowing green   
numbers of its keyboard, in the semidarkness of the bedroom. She could call   
Xander. She could talk to him. Tell him... what?  
  
That she loved him, for example. That would be a good opening line.  
  
That she was sorry. That they could fix it.  
  
But, what if he didn't love her back? What if he wasn't sorry? What if he didn't   
want to fix it?  
  
What if it had all been just a meaningless relationship, based on some hormones   
and tawdry teen lust? What if he was glad that he was finally free from the   
burden that he was supposed to bear, with her capricious and self-absorbed   
behavior? What if all this was a comfortable way out for him?  
  
She swallowed a knot that had formed in her throat with difficulty. She couldn't   
believe this. When had Cordelia Chase turned into this parody of herself? When   
had she become a doubtful shadow of her strong personality?  
  
Feeling a little spark of anger growing inside her, Cordelia placed the phone on   
its cradle, a little more forcefully than what she intended at first and turned   
around, covering herself with the blankets.  
  
If Xander Harris thought that she was going to dance to the tune that he was   
playing, then he was just plain wrong.  
  
He wasn't that special.  
  
Even when he had the warmest, kindest eyes she had ever seen in a man. Even when   
he had those charming goofy ears and that perfect, sexy and generous mouth. Even   
when he had lips that could set her on fire, and fingers that were able to trace   
burning paths on her skin just with their mere touch...  
  
Turning around once more, she took the phone in her hands. 555-32...  
  
She hung up and turned around, sighing almost in desperation. Strong, she had to   
be strong. =Only the weak ones beg,= she told herself, remembering one of her   
father's favorite sentences.  
  
She wasn't weak. She was strong, independent. She didn't need him.  
  
But she wanted him.  
  
And that added a new dimension to her problem, because she hadn't ever felt like   
that before. She had cared, she had liked, she even had desired. She could even   
say that she had been in love.  
  
But she had never loved like this before. And never, ever, had she wanted   
someone with so much intensity.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
When the chirping sound of the alarm clock began to stab her tired brain at ten   
o'clock in the morning, Cordelia had been thinking of the irony that tomorrow   
was Saint Valentine's. They had missed out on lasting for a year, by just two   
days.  
  
Trying to put that depressing thought aside, the brunette practically smashed   
the off button of her clock, effectively muting it. She got out of her bed with   
a tired grunt.  
  
She had a headache, and generally felt like something the cat had just spat out.  
  
"I hate you, Xander Harris," she muttered, slipping her bare feet into her fuzzy   
slippers. Teeny Toons slippers. The same ones he had given her, so that she   
'never had cold feet'.  
  
Groaning in a very unladylike way, she got up and decided that it would be   
better to take a long and warm shower, that it would help her to recover from   
the long sleepless night and take her mind off him.  
  
Taking clean clothes from her drawers, humming a nameless song under her breath,   
she thought on how wonderful the hot water was going to feel caressing her bare   
skin, how relaxing it would be.  
  
After that, she would go out. Go to the mall. Buy some new clothes. She could do   
it. She was strong. She was resolute. She was...  
  
The phone began ringing the moment she was walking out of her bedroom and, in   
her haste to get it, her clothes flew off in a cloud of falling silk and cotton.   
The phone practically slipped out from her nervous grasp, as she grabbed it.  
  
"Xander?" she asked, her voice full of hope and anxiety.  
  
"Sorry, no time for losers today!" Harmony's voice came out the phone, as   
chipper and devoid of any real deepness as always. "What, Cordelia, you're   
missing your Prince Charmless? Tell me something, when you kiss him, does he   
turn into a toad or-?"  
  
"Harmony," Cordelia harshly cut her off, not in the mood for that kind of   
conversation. "What do you want?"  
  
"Uh-oh, are we snappish this morning or what?"  
  
"'Or what' would be a good way to put it," Cordelia said, letting herself fall   
onto her bed and her eyes roam the high ceiling of her room. "I'm going to   
repeat this one more time and then I'm going to hang up, so answer me: what...   
do... you... want?" she asked, spacing the words as if the sheep at the other   
end of the line was a slow-learning kid.  
  
"Well, tomorrow being Valentine's Day I thought that you'd like to go to the   
mall and pick a new outfit... I don't know, something that doesn't clash with   
baggy pants and Hawaiian shirts?"  
  
Even when the deep sarcasm was patent in Harmony's voice, Cordelia preferred to   
ignore it, closing her eyes and trying to make the best decision.  
  
"OK," she finally said, surprising both Harmony and herself. "When do you want   
me to pick you up?"  
  
Not really expecting her to agree, Harmony needed some seconds to compose   
herself. "Well, uh, ah, in an hour?"  
  
"Make it forty-five minutes," Cordelia told her, placing the phone on its cradle   
without saying goodbye or waiting for one.  
  
For an endless second, the brunette girl looked at the offending piece of   
plastic on her bedside table in silence and then she got up, gathered her   
clothes and went to take her shower.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
Exactly thirty-seven minutes had passed since Harmony's call, when Cordelia was   
finally ready to go out. Looking at her expensive wristwatch, she calculated   
that she could make it on time even driving at a moderate speed.  
  
So, taking a deep breath, she took her purse, checked her keys and wallet and   
went out of her room, closing the door behind herself.  
  
For five long seconds, Cordelia's room remained empty, quiet and silent.  
  
Then the door opened violently and she stormed back into the bedroom, turned   
into a brunette hurricane.  
  
"Damn you, Xander Harris!" she practically shouted, throwing her purse   
carelessly onto her still-unmade bed and grabbing the phone, violently punching   
Xander's number.  
  
Pacing around, fuming angrily, looking at her watch and seeing the spare time   
she still had disappearing, she waited for the phone to be picked at the other   
end of the line. He was going to hear her out. Nobody made Cordelia Chase feel   
this way, and then backpedal like some kind of-  
  
"Yeah?" a muffled voice came through the phone, barely recognizable as female   
and quickly followed by an endless series of smoke-filled coughs.  
  
=Great, Xander's mom. Well,= Cordy thought while waiting for her to finish, =at   
least it's better than his father.= "Hi, uh, is Xander there?"  
  
"Who wants to know?" Xander's mother asked after a short pause, obviously to   
take a drag from a cigarette.  
  
Closing her eyes, Cordelia sat down on the edge of her bed. "I'm Cor... I'm his   
girlfriend," she told her, suddenly feeling the need to state it.  
  
At the other end of the line, Marisa Harris practically choked with laughter.   
"Who?"  
  
The brunette girl frowned at this. Hadn't Xander told them? She knew that he   
hadn't the best of relationships with his parents, but it was hard to believe   
that he hadn't told them that they had been dating for almost a year.  
  
"Cordelia," she said, still a little puzzled. "I'm Cordelia Chase."  
  
For a moment there was silence on the line, and then Xander's mother whistled in   
admiration.  
  
"Well, well, well, it seems that the little asshole isn't so dumb after all,"   
she chuckled. "Shagging a little rich brat like you...who woulda believed it?"  
  
Taking the phone away from her ear, Cordelia stared at it with incredulity, not   
believing what she had just heard. It was beginning to be painfully obvious why   
Xander hadn't told Mr. and Mrs. Harris anything about the two of them.  
  
Biting her tongue not to scream a very rude comeback to the woman at the other   
end of the line, the brunette girl just tried to stay calm.  
  
"Well," Cordelia harshly asked again, "is he there or not?"  
  
"Nah," Marisa Harris told her after a new pause for a cigarette. "The kid hasn't   
spent the night here, he'll probably be with that bunch of losers he hangs out   
with."  
  
"So, you don't know where he is or where he spent the night?" Cordelia asked   
with incredulity.  
  
"Are you deaf or what? I'm not the police officer in charge of his parole."  
  
=No, you're supposed to be his mother, you bitch,= Cordelia thought, barely   
keeping her cool.  
  
Mrs. Harris continued, "Why don't you try that Jew friend of his, that...   
Willow?"  
  
"Yeah, that's what I'll do," she said tightly, wishing to be able to tell her   
what she really was thinking about her right then, "thank you very much."  
  
Without waiting for a goodbye that she knew wouldn't come, Cordelia hung up,   
taking a new look at her wristwatch. It probably wasn't anything. Xander would   
have spent the night at Willow's, talking to his best friend.  
  
That was even good, because it meant that he'd had some feelings to sort out –   
it meant that not everything was as over as he'd claimed it to be last night. He   
would be with Willow, having breakfast with her.  
  
She would just call her place, check that he was all right and then go to pick   
up Harmony. She would have to speed a little, but she would make it almost on   
time.  
  
Everything was going to be alright.  
  
Right?  
  
He would be alright. He had to be alright.  
  
But then they were living in Sunnydale, on top of the damn Hellmouth.   
Vampireland and Demonworld, wrapped up together with a nice red bow on top.  
  
And they had let him go out at night. Alone. Unprotected.  
  
How could they have been so stupid?  
  
Almost fumbling with the buttons in her haste to dial the redhead's phone   
number, Cordelia brought the phone to her ear, impatiently waiting for the young   
hacker to answer her. She was breathing so quickly, that she was almost   
hyperventilating.  
  
"Hello?" Willow finally picked up, her voice coming out the phone with the   
muffled traces of sleep. "Who's there?"  
  
"Willow?" Cordelia breathed in relief. "It's me."  
  
"Who?" the redhead asked with a yawn.  
  
"Cordelia," she clarified coldly. "Is Xander there?"  
  
"Xander?" Willow's mind seemed as dense as her voice that morning.  
  
Cordelia sighed in resignation, getting up from her bed and beginning to pace   
nervously around her room. "Yes, Willow, Xander. My boyfriend, your best friend,   
tall, dark hair, wears clothes from a garage sale... do you remember him now?"  
  
"Xander?" the redhead repeated, eliciting a growl from Cordelia. "Oh, yeah,   
yeah. Yesterday, and all that. So, what's going on with him?"  
  
Exasperated, Cordelia practically snarled at the phone. "He's not around!" she   
exclaimed. "That's what's going on! He's not at his house, he didn't go home   
last night. And now you tell me that he's not there, either!! Can't you put two   
and two together?!?"  
  
For a short moment, the telephone line was submerged in a deep silence as   
Willow's half-asleep brain absorbed what Cordelia had just told her. "He's not   
at home?"  
  
Before the brunette could verbally rip her guts out, the redhead managed to   
continue. "Well, uh, I'm sure he'll be alright. He seemed very pissed off   
yesterday, and he'll probably want to cool off a little before speaking to   
anybody."  
  
At that very moment, Cordelia surprised herself with the intensity of her rage   
towards the little redhead. "Willow?" she managed to say with a sugar-dripping   
tone.  
  
"Yeah?" Willow answered innocently.  
  
"Are you completely nuts, or what?!?" Cordelia screamed, making the hacker jump   
in surprise. "This is Sunnydale, Willow, do I have to remind you about the   
vampires and all the nasty things that go bump in the night? Are you trying to   
tell me that Xander has spent the night on the streets, and you are not the   
least bit worried about him?"  
  
She didn't know what was startling her the most; her anger, her worry or the   
fact that she could almost feel Willow blushing at the other end of the line and   
she wasn't feeling guilty at all.  
  
"Why don't you c-come here?" Willow finally told her. "We'll look around in the   
places where he hangs out, OK?"  
  
"I'll be there in ten minutes," Cordelia told her harshly, angrily smashing the   
phone down on its cradle. Then, taking her purse, she practically flew out of   
her room.  
  
Her shopping date with Harmony didn't even cross her mind.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
Modern man doesn't have a clear understanding about the real meaning of the   
concept of 'eternity'. For a human being of the 20th century, or the 21st for   
that matter, 'eternity' is just a very long measure of time.  
  
A billion years. A trillion centuries. A zillion eons.  
  
But that's not what eternity is.  
  
Eternity is forever.  
  
Just try to imagine a ball of cast iron the size of planet Earth. And now   
imagine that a woodpecker flies over it every thousand years, lands and sharpens   
its beak on its surface only once. Only once. And then it just flaps its wings   
and flies away, for the next thousand years.  
  
The time that little bird would need to reduce that giant ball of iron to the   
size of a grain of sand with only that action, that time, would just be the   
first day of the beginning of eternity.  
  
Knowing this, that which had been Xander Harris could honestly say that he had   
been submerged in that ocean of pain, forgotten in that pit of the damned, for   
an entire eternity.  
  
But something weird had happened at the last moment when he had thought it was   
all over, when the pain had become so unbearable that he had believed that the   
nothingness of the lack of existence was better than this endless torture.  
  
When his will had been about to surrender, and allow the worming intruder to   
finally claim victory. When he had been about to give up.  
  
Something had changed. Inside him. Around him. Everywhere.  
  
He couldn't describe it, and he couldn't explain it. But it was as if a light   
had been born, a tiny spark of hope shining inside him as something stepped into   
the path of the parasite creature, stopping its advance, giving him time and   
space to gather his weapons, to fortify himself. To recover.  
  
He was only going to have that one chance, and he knew it – just as he also knew   
that if he missed it, that it would be the end of everything.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
"This had better be good," Buffy said while entering the library, "because I   
have like a century of sleep to catch up on, after last night."  
  
Dropping herself onto the nearest available chair, the Slayer blew an errant   
golden lock away from her face, supporting her head with her arm on the table.   
"So, what's going on, Giles? Demon? Vampire? Nasty green thing vomiting   
corrosive green slime over my best leather jacket?"  
  
She arched her brow, mocking surprised realization. "Wait! That was yesterday!"  
  
The British Watcher just sent her one of his silent and patented looks over the   
book he was reading. Then he shook his head softly, carefully placing the book   
on the stacks and walking down the stairs.   
  
"Not this time," he said, while taking off his spectacles to clean them with an   
absent-minded gesture. "In fact, it wasn't my idea to gather here today. It, uh,   
it seems that Cordelia can't locate Xander after yesterday's little...uh,   
disagreement and she's worried."  
  
Buffy just raised and eyebrow. "Cordelia? Worried? Wouldn't be real feelings be   
needed for that to occur?"  
  
Giles pushed his small glasses on his nose up with the point of his finger, and   
stared at his young protégé in silent recrimination. Buffy at least had the   
grace to look aside, a little ashamed.  
  
"Buffy, you know Cordelia...has changed a lot during the last few years. E-even   
though I'm obviously not her greatest admirer, even I can tell that she really   
cares about Xander. If she says she's worried, the least we could do is listen   
to her."  
  
"OK, OK," the Slayer excused herself. "Geez, don't be so cranky, Giles. You   
sound like it was you who had to spend the night swimming in an ocean of sticky   
trash, chasing a creature from the Twilight Zone."  
  
"Which reminds me, you still haven't informed me of the developments of said   
situation," he patiently told her, crossing his arms over his tweed-clad chest.  
  
She shrugged. "Not really very much to tell. Picked Angel up at the mansion.   
Went to the dump. Crawled in the dirt for almost the whole night. Found the   
creature feasting on the corpse of a security guard, fought it and slayed.   
Swoosh," she mimicked, letting her arm fall as an axe, "chopped off its head   
like a pro. Quick and clean."  
  
She blinked a few times. "Well, not clean as in clean-clean, because it was   
quite messy with the gore, y'know – with all that green slime, and all the waste   
and the..."  
  
"I-I think I get the point," Giles cut her off before she managed to make him   
regret having breakfast. "Uh, then I gather you are alright."  
  
"Yeah, apart from this smell," she observed, sniffing her wrist. "I've showered   
five times, and I still haven't gotten rid of it. Yikes, I shouldn't have tried   
to hide it with that cheap perfume. Now the smells have mixed, and it's even   
worse. Smell," she commanded, offering her wrist to Giles.  
  
With a grimace, the British Watcher backpedaled from her, raising one hand   
between them as a makeshift barrier. "Mmm, no thank you, I-I trust in your word.   
And, ah, Angel? How is he?"  
  
Noticing Giles' uncomfortable tone, she looked at her Watcher sideways. To say   
that he still had some serious issues with the souled vampire, would be a big   
understatement. But she couldn't blame him, not after all that had happened.  
  
"He's OK," Buffy said simply, avoiding the gaze of Giles' green eyes, "He's   
still not 100%, but he was a great help. He grabbed the green-thingy while my   
axe got familiar with its neck. Don't you think it's really weird, for a teenage   
girl to be so good at cutting off heads?"  
  
The Watcher just smiled at her obvious attempt at changing the subject, and   
nodded slowly. He was about to say something else when the double doors of the   
library burst open and a furious Cordelia came in, followed by a low-headed   
Willow.  
  
She was walking a pair of steps behind the angry brunette, looking at her with   
the fear and respect one would have for a very pissed-off Valkyrie.  
  
"So you're here at last!" she exclaimed, walking to where Buffy was. "Very nice   
for you to honor us with your presence, Buffy!"  
  
The Slayer blinked in surprise, and looked back at the cheerleader with   
wide-open eyes. "Hey, hey, hey!" she exclaimed in annoyance. "Do you have a   
stone in your shoe or what?"  
  
Stepping between them before the two girls jumped at each other's throats,   
Willow quickly raised her hands in a calming gesture. "Uh, wait, before either   
of you do anything you'll regret later, you should remember why we're here."  
  
"Which is?" Buffy asked, still a little confused about the whole matter.  
  
"Xander's missing!!" Cordelia shouted her. "He's not at his house, he's not   
anywhere!!"  
  
Frowning, Buffy looked at Willow, who answered her before she could even voice   
the question. "We've been searching," she told the Slayer. "Xander doesn't   
exactly have many places he likes to go to be alone, and he's not at any of   
them."  
  
Taking a deep breath, Buffy covered her mouth with her hand and looked at her   
Watcher in search of some advice and support.  
  
"Well," Giles said, adjusting his glasses over the bridge of his nose, "I'm sure   
he'll be alright, but," he added, cutting off Cordelia's coming tirade, "we'll   
search again just to be certain. After all, you had a quite strong... dispute   
yesterday, so i-it would be natural for him to want to be alone for a while.   
Willow, don't you remember any other place he could be?"  
  
Sadly shaking her head, the redhead looked at him with a worried expression.   
"No, Xander's never been much on loneliness. I'm beginning to get worried too."  
  
Cordelia practically snorted, beginning to walk back and front with a nervous   
pace. "Something bad has happened to him," she said quietly, almost speaking to   
herself.  
  
"We don't have any reason to believe that, Cordelia," Giles tried to calm her   
down.  
  
"We haven't?" she asked, with a deep note of sarcasm in her voice. "Why, Giles?   
The Hellmouth's suddenly closed up and you've forgotten to mention it? There's   
no more vampires out there? We can walk the streets safe at night?"  
  
Giles looked back at her, blinking in surprise at her anger. "Well, no, but-"  
  
"Then but nothing! Don't tell me that we haven't any reasons to worry, because   
we've got tons of them, Giles! Millions! Last night we were so stupid and   
self-centered that we let him walk out of here alone, and now he could be in   
some kind of horrible and hideous nightmare!"  
  
"I think you're taking things a little far," Buffy observed, crossing her arms   
over her chest. "Just because you feel guilty about yesterday's quarrel, you   
don't have to drag us along into your hysterics."  
  
Cordelia practically eviscerated her with her eyes, which had turned a   
surprising darker shade that morning. "The day you start noticing the real   
feelings of people around you, then you'll have the right to overlook the rest   
of us. But until then, I advise you to shut up and do your job!"  
  
Looking at her with wide-open eyes, amazed and angered at her comments, Buffy   
rose from her chair, nearing the brunette. "What's that supposed to mean?"  
  
Cordelia crossed her arms over her chest and looked down hard at the Slayer,   
using her superior height to her advantage. "That Xander can think that you're   
perfect and flawless, Buffy, but I don't have any reason to do so."  
  
Cutting off her response even before the Slayer could begin to voice it, the   
cheerleader continued her assault. "He's done every imaginable thing to get your   
attention, he's been there every time you've needed him, whether you wanted it   
or not. He's been hurt and he's suffered for you, Buffy, and now that it's him   
who's in danger, now that it's him who needs your help, you tell me that I'm   
taking things a little too far?" she finished with sarcastic incredulity.  
  
She continued, "And you think I'm the self-absorbed one? Get your eyes off your   
navel and take a good look around yourself!"  
  
That was more than what the blonde Slayer was disposed to bear and, pointing at   
Cordelia with her finger, she let out a dry and sarcastic laugh. "Ha! Since when   
are you the keeper of selfless generosity, Ms.   
'First-show-me-your-wallet-and-then-we-talk'? When did you begin to look out for   
others as if you really cared about them?!?"  
  
She continued, "Or do you expect me to believe that you really love Xander –   
because you'd have to be something more than a cold, heartless bitch to do so,   
which frankly, I don't think you could ever be!"  
  
For a second a thick silence fell in the library as all those present waited for   
the brunette cheerleader to explode at Buffy's mean recrimination but,   
surprisingly, that never came.  
  
Instead, Cordelia just leaned over towards the blonde Slayer very slowly and,   
with an icy tone, calmly spoke to her.  
  
"God knows I'm not the most perfect person in the world, Buffy. Yeah, I can be   
cold, I can be self-absorbed and sometimes I can be a real bitch. But I know who   
I am, I know who I love, and I know that I'm not going to waste any other second   
here talking with you."  
  
Retrieving her purse from where she had left it on the table, Cordelia turned   
around to give one last, hard look at the Slayer. Nevertheless, she wasn't able   
to hold back a single tear that slowly rolled down her cheek, leaving a wet path   
on her tanned skin. "You should ask yourself what kind of person you really are,   
Buffy, if you can't even look past other people's façades and see what's really   
inside them."  
  
Then, turning around, she quickly went out the library without looking back.  
  
"Can you believe that? Now she wants to make me think that she's Mother   
Theresa!" she said while turning towards Willow, searching for her friend's   
usually unconditional support. But, much to her own surprise, the expression on   
the redhead's face was far from amicable.  
  
Willow just shook her head sadly at her. "She wasn't talking about herself," the   
hacker told her, before turning around to follow Cordelia's path.  
  
Watching in mute astonishment as the red-haired girl disappeared through the   
library's double door, Buffy let herself fall back onto her chair, letting out a   
long sigh.  
  
"Now I've done it good, haven't I?" she asked, without turning around to face   
Giles. "Do you think she really loves him?"  
  
Passing a hand through his hair, the British Watcher took a seat next to her.   
"There's nothing more human than stereotypes, Buffy," he calmly told her, with   
that deep and comforting tone that his voice had in moments like this.  
  
"W-we feel safe and comfortable placing... filing people inside them, so we know   
how to act and react to them. The empty-headed cheerleader, the charming but not   
very clever clown, the mousy bookworm... we don't like to be surprised, we don't   
like to be taken with our guard down."  
  
He continued, "But people, both as a group and as individuals, have the annoying   
tendency of always being much more than what meets the eye. People grow up,   
people mature... people change, Buffy. We don't like it, but that's how things   
are."  
  
"You haven't answered my question," Buffy said, tilting her head slightly to one   
side.  
  
Giles looked at her through half-closed eyes for a long moment, then he took off   
his spectacles and, not for the first time, the Slayer surprised at how intense   
his green gaze could be. "Yes, Buffy, I do."  
  
Licking her lips a little self-consciously, the blonde girl stood up and   
gathered her things. "I better search for him, too. I'll go to Willy's and shake   
the tree a little, see what falls out."  
  
At the last possible moment, just when she was about to cross through the   
library doors, she looked back at her Watcher and frowned with real, heartfelt   
worry. "He will be alright, won't he?"  
  
Giles nodded softly. "I'm sure of that, but Cordelia had an excellent point.   
This is still the Hellmouth."  
  
Letting out a long, almost painful, sigh, the Slayer nodded and went away,   
leaving just a pair of wooden doors softly rocking behind her.  
  
Passing a hand over his lips, feeling his mouth suddenly dry, Giles put on his   
glasses and stood up. He walked to his office almost absent-mindedly, his gaze   
lost at an indeterminate point in front of him, all the time caressing his chin   
and stubble.  
  
When he finally entered his small room, he reached for the phone on his table   
and noticed, with great surprise, that his hand was trembling.  
  
Closing his eyes, the British man turned his hand into a fist and pressed it   
tightly shut, until he was able to control the shakes. Then, licking his dry   
lips, he took the phone and quickly dialed a number.  
  
"Sunnydale Police Department," an impersonal voice said in his ear, "how can we   
help you?"  
  
~~~~~~  
  
It was as if there were two different forces yanking at him, both of them with   
so much strength, with such intensity that he was afraid that they would end up   
ripping his whole being into two bloody halves.  
  
One of them was dark and dangerous, it offered him the luxuriant and addictive   
power of a demon. Power without the boundaries and ties of a human conscience.   
With the ability to separate actions from consequences, the joy of being one   
with the mother night – to be a true child of darkness.  
  
The second power was as strong as the first, as promising and addictive; but,   
contrary to the other's inherent darkness and evil, this one seemed to swim in   
more ambiguous waters – to be perpetually immersed in a thick haze, that didn't   
allow him to see its true intentions.  
  
Both of them wanted him, and neither of them seemed willing to let him go.  
  
Which one should he choose?  
  
The perverse freedom promised by the demon?  
  
The troubled but clearer immortality of the other power?  
  
The truth was, that he wanted neither of them. He just wanted things back the   
way they were before.  
  
He wanted his humanity back, he wanted to be whole again; far away from that   
sticky void that seemed to filter inside him through every pore of his dead   
skin, worming into his soul.  
  
Covering it like a thick blanket, killing not just who but what he was, what   
defined him as a special and unique human individual, different from the rest.  
  
But in the end, after so long that the concept of time itself had lost all   
meaning, after so much pain that it wasn't humanly or divinely possible to   
suffer more, the final choice was taken out of his hands.  
  
As if they had their own agendas, the two powers trying to claim control of his   
being just stopped their fight against each other.  
  
For one wonderful instant, the young soul was conceded the gift of peace and   
calm.  
  
And then they attacked again, with renewed strength, making him understand that   
he had been wrong.  
  
It was, after all, possible to suffer more.  
  
This time, however, he was able to notice the change in their strategy. This   
time, instead of fighting against each other, they had decided to collaborate.   
It was as if they'd thought, =Why divide the prize when both of us can have all   
of it?=  
  
They merged together, the dark tendrils of the demon melting and mixing with the   
ambiguous and incorporeal mist of the Immortal, two separate beings becoming   
one. Stronger. Deeper. With a power and a will that couldn't be tamed or   
defeated.  
  
For a second, the dark void around him vanished, and that which had been   
Alexander Lavelle Harris was able to see the real form of that ancient enemy   
that wanted his body, mind and soul.  
  
A dragon.  
  
That was what his brain identified what his dead eyes saw, because his disperse   
mind couldn't express that creature with any other words or images. The powerful   
body covered by thick and shiny scales; not the ones of a reptile, but made of   
the same hard and harsh material as an insect's casing.  
  
The ember-red and golden eyes, flaring fire and rage, boring into him with the   
curiosity of a predator about to jump on its prey. The slightly-open jaws,   
showing him the ivory-white fangs, oozing sticky foam as a growl that could be   
felt more in his bones than in his ears escaped from them.  
  
And then a sudden movement, as fast as the one of an attacking cobra, as nimble   
of a panther, and those same jaws closed onto him. The pointed teeth ripped his   
flesh, the molars smashed his bones and its bifurcated tongue licked the broken   
remains of his body, lapping up his blood as it flowed from his open wounds.  
  
He screamed.  
  
He growled.  
  
The surreal nightmare turned upside-down, folded into itself until he wasn't   
able to separate what was real from what wasn't. Briefly, he wondered if he had   
ever really been able to do so.  
  
Suddenly, he was inside the beast and the beast was inside him. The fangs ripped   
his flesh and he felt his prey struggling inside the grip of his jaws, tasting   
his own lifeblood. He was the prey. He was the predator.  
  
And he himself, the last independent identity that still remained in that   
twisted fantasy, melted and mixed with the beast, merging with it. He became the   
beast. The beast became him.  
  
And he knew, with that absolute certainty that's shared by fools, the   
enlightened and those in agony, that that exact moment meant the end of his old   
existence and the beginning of a new one.  
  
Then, if he'd been able to cry, he would have done so.  
  
But he didn't, because only human beings can cry, and that was something he   
wasn't anymore.  
  
That part of his existence, now, was as dead as the rest of his body.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
Cordelia looked at her own reflection in the vanity mirror of her bedroom, and   
had to make a real effort to recognize herself. Was this the same girl that had   
always prided herself on having the best physical appearance possible?  
  
Was this the same young woman that had always been more worried about her   
make-up or the clothes she wore than the people around her, those who claimed to   
love her and wanted to be loved back by her?  
  
She couldn't say so.  
  
If the truth were told, at that precise moment on that Monday morning, that   
February the 15th of the year 1999, that was when she understood that the old   
Cordelia Chase was dead and buried, and that Xander Harris was the man to be   
blamed for it.  
  
Or maybe to be thanked for it, she wasn't sure.  
  
Anyway, as she looked at the god-awful bags under her eyes, the product of three   
nights without sleep, at her long brown hair – usually so bright and carefully   
arranged – falling around her face in limp, almost dirty strands and her tanned   
face, now tinted with a sick pale tone of tiredness and worry, she couldn't but   
think with deep sarcasm that love was supposed to make you look radiant, not   
like absolute crap.  
  
She felt as if something was dying inside of her.  
  
Because he wasn't there. Because something bad and horrible had happened to him,   
and there wasn't anything she could do about it. Because she feared she was   
going to lose him without telling him how much she loved him, how much he meant   
to her, to the point that he had turned her entire world upside-down.  
  
If Friday night and Saturday had been full of worry and nervousness as the rest   
of the Scooby Gang and herself searched for their lost friend, Saturday night   
and Sunday had been pure hell as their suspicions and worries had slowly turned   
into certainties.   
  
It was as if Xander had just vanished off the face of the earth.  
  
He wasn't at home, he wasn't at the Bronze, and he wasn't at the beach where he   
had often sought refuge – looking at the vast deep ocean with lost dark eyes,   
when his parents' shouts and quarrels became too loud for him to stand them   
anymore.  
  
He wasn't at the library, he wasn't at school, he wasn't at the mall or anywhere   
else... he simply wasn't.  
  
And nobody seemed to know anything. Even Willy the snitch didn't know squat,   
when Buffy had been about to turn him into a bloody pulp. His parents didn't   
know anything, and worst of all, they didn't seem to care much either.  
  
She had been calling his house every hour until they'd told her to stop calling,   
with not-exactly-good manners. Then she'd begun to call every half-hour, so they   
just disconnected the phone.  
  
Oz had quickly joined the search, providing another set of wheels and Angel had   
done the same when darkness finally fell. She had lost count of how many times   
she had visited the same places, asked the same people, driven along the same   
streets.  
  
"Have you seen Xander?"  
  
The same results. The same answers. The same dead-ends.  
  
"No, I haven't. Who's Xander?"  
  
She was slowly going mad. As the hours passed, sometimes too quickly to even   
notice them, sometimes so slowly that looking at the face of her watch had been   
a subtle form of torture, she had felt herself slowly falling apart.  
  
She closed herself off to any external reference, she ignored the looks of the   
others as they wondered what they should do with her, what they should tell her,   
how they should feel about her.  
  
After their first harsh words, Buffy had finally gotten into Slayer mode and   
begun to do her job. Then, when the initial suspicions had turned into real   
worries, she had taken the next natural step and begun to beat herself up about   
it. =It's my fault, I should have been there to protect him, I'm the Slayer,   
it's my responsibility, blah, blah, blah...=  
  
Cordelia didn't blame her but, the truth was, she couldn't feel very much   
compassion for her, either. She didn't care about her, she hadn't enough energy   
to do so.  
  
=Where are you, Xander =  
  
Willow had tried to be supportive, but she had fallen under the weight of her   
own fears, worries and still-confused feelings towards Xander. By Sunday   
morning, she was practically in tears the whole time.  
  
Cordelia, maybe for the first time in her whole life, felt sympathetic towards   
her – at least she was really worried about him.  
  
=Why aren't you here with me?=  
  
For the guys' part, there hadn't been any surprises there either. Giles had been   
his usual closed and introverted self, covering himself under his books and   
too-long words not to show his fears and inner turmoil.  
  
Now and then, she had observed him walking quietly into his office, trying to   
pass unnoticed while he made a phone call. Every time, she had tried not to   
think about what she knew he was doing.  
  
And each time, waiting for him to come out of his small office so she could see   
the tell-tale expression on his face – grief or relief – she couldn't help but   
think about what she would do, if he came out with bad news.  
  
Because she knew that he had been calling the morgue, asking if they had a young   
boy with dark hair in one of those perpetually cold chambers where they stored   
the dead bodies, as if they were some kind of merchandise. Asking if her Xander   
was a corpse.  
  
=Are you dead, Xander?=  
  
There was no reply.  
  
=Is that the reason why I feel this emptiness inside me, as if something I   
didn't even know I had has been ripped away from me?=  
  
Still nothing.  
  
=Am I going to see you again, Xander?=  
  
Oz, of course, had been too busy trying to console his dear girlfriend and   
Angel... well, he had barely been visible at all, wanting to help in the search   
but trying to stay away from the whole gang in general, and Giles in particular.  
  
So, nobody had really been there for her. And she was falling apart. She was   
breaking from the inside, being torn in two.  
  
But, curiously, she still hadn't openly cried. She resisted believing what   
everybody was fearing.  
  
She just couldn't accept it.  
  
She looked again at the stranger in the mirror, and her reflected self sent a   
look of exasperation towards her. 'You're not going to accomplish anything   
sitting here,' she seemed to say. 'So get your lazy butt off that chair and move   
on!'  
  
Sighing, she took her hairbrush and began to carefully comb her hair, loosening   
the knots formed in her long dark mane.  
  
After five minutes, seeing that it still had the brightness, color and general   
appearance of a dead cat's, she – contrary to what would usually expected from   
her – just let it go and gathered her hair in a tight ponytail.  
  
For the first time in her life, she couldn't have cared less about her looks.  
  
Everything inside was a haze. As she moved around her bedroom, gathering her   
clothes and almost carelessly putting them on, all she was able to think about   
was the night of the Homecoming Dance.  
  
Everything had been horrible that night too – with all the confusion, the   
vampires, and, to top it all off, the crown of Homecoming Queen falling on a   
head that wasn't hers.  
  
Even while it seemed ridiculous, childish, at that moment it had meant a   
terrible betrayal that had made her look for her so-called boyfriend – she'd   
searched for a shoulder to cry on, only to find that he had already gone.  
  
Fuming, she had driven back home on the verge of tears, not wanting to believe   
the turn her life was taking. Suddenly, the biggest bunch of losers in the   
entire school were her best friends, and her boyfriend was the king of them all.  
  
And he hadn't even been there when she needed him. She'd gotten all dressed up   
just for him...well, not just for him, but she had been thinking about him when   
she had chosen that dress, asking herself if it would please him.  
  
She had been ready – they would have danced, they would have enjoyed their time   
together and, in the end, she'd have taken that last step. She was ready, she   
felt herself ready. Everything would have been so perfect...  
  
But he hadn't been there. He hadn't waited for her.  
  
She had arrived home thinking about what she would tell him, when they met   
again. =I'm going to kick his self-absorbed ass. I'm gonna make him pay, I'm   
gonna...=  
  
But she had found him sitting on the steps of her house's front door, his   
bow-tie loosened, its two ends hanging on his chest, framing the well-built   
parts of his neck and upper chest next to the unbuttoned collar of his white   
shirt.  
  
The black tuxedo had looked so great on him that he appeared good enough to eat,   
and all her reproaches and recriminations had flown out of her mind as if they   
had never existed.  
  
He had smiled warmly at her and she had found herself returning that roguish,   
beautiful and heart-breaking smile of his, losing all of her anger and resolve.  
  
"What are you doing here?" she had asked him, not without a lot of surprise.   
  
"Waiting for you," he had told her, raising his hands and showing her the two   
champagne glasses he carried in his left one and the bottle in his right.  
  
As she'd walked closer to him, her expert eyes had noticed that the glasses were   
fake, made of cheap plastic instead of expensive crystal and that the bottle was   
one of peach juice, her favorite.   
  
Noticing the slight raising of her eyebrow, Xander had looked at her sheepishly.  
  
"I would've loved to bring real glasses and a bottle of Bollinger RD, but my   
budget doesn't exactly let me do that sorta thing," he had explained, pouring   
the juice into the two cups as if it was a valuable liquor indeed.  
  
Taking the glass he offered her, caressing his fingers as her hand passed by,   
she'd smiled softly at him. "It's OK, a girl can get tired of luxury and   
diamonds now and then."  
  
Smiling once again and looking at her sideways, making her want to take his face   
into her hands and kiss him senseless, he had shaken his head. "Liar, but thanks   
anyway."  
  
"You're welcome." They had clinked their glasses together, cringing at the deaf   
sound of plastic against plastic, and then taken a sip of the juice.  
  
It had been cold, slightly dense and completely delicious, just as she liked it.   
"You still haven't told me what you're doing here."  
  
Looking at her as if he knew a secret she was dying to know, he had broken away   
slightly from her and reached behind the bushes that adorned the front of the   
Chase Manor, as he used to call her house. "I talked to Buffy on the phone, and   
she told me about the Queen thing. I just thought you'd like someone to cheer   
you up."  
  
She'd looked at him with suspicion. "You weren't there," she had just told him.   
She hadn't intended to make it sound like a recrimination, but that was how it   
sounded.  
  
Stopping his search, he had looked back at her in silence for an endless moment,   
with an expression that she hadn't been able to decipher.  
  
There had been some guilt there, but something else too. Realization.   
Acceptation. Eagerness. Fear. Hope... so many things in the blink of an eye,   
that she wasn't able to get them all.  
  
"I know, and I'm sorry, but something happened tonight," he had told her,   
resuming his search.  
  
"Something bad?"  
  
He'd shrugged softly. "Not exactly, I guess that it kinda depends on your point   
of view. I almost did something that I... I think I would've regretted for the   
rest of my life – something that made me realize that..."  
  
He had grunted and, finally, he had taken out a boom-box from behind the bushes,   
placing it over the marble balustrade of the stairs. Pressing the play button,   
he let Sarah McLachlan's sweet chords and voice echo in the darkness of the   
night.  
  
"I have a smile  
Stretched from ear to ear  
To see you walking down the road  
  
We meet at the lights  
I stare for a while  
The world around disappears  
  
It's just you and me  
In this island of hope  
A breath between us could be miles"  
  
"Realize what?" she had asked him, not being able to hide a smile at seeing his   
antics.  
  
When he had turned around, he had a single red rose in his hand. Tilting his   
head slightly to one side, Xander had smiled almost shyly at her. "That I would   
love to dance with you."  
  
"Let me surround you  
My sea to your shore  
Let me be the calm you seek  
  
Oh, and every time I'm close to you  
There's too much I can't say  
And you just walk away  
  
And I forgot to tell you I love you  
And the night's too long  
And cold here without you"  
  
Smiling, surprised by his unusual gentleness and behavior, she had let him take   
her in his arms and bring her into the rhythm of the soft music. Cordelia had   
felt her body swaying along with his as if moving of its own volition, flowing   
together in a way that felt both natural and right.  
  
She hadn't said anything about the fact that his clumsiness and usual awkward   
style of dancing, had suddenly turned into this elegant suaveness. This was a   
whole new side of Xander Harris, and she had been enjoying it too much to spoil   
it with needless talking.  
  
"I grieve in my condition  
For I cannot find the words  
To say I need you so  
  
Oh, and every time I'm close to you  
There's too much I can't say  
And you just walk away  
  
And I forgot to tell you I love you  
And the night's too long  
And cold here without you"  
  
She had always thought that all those things about soulmates she used to read   
about in her cheesy romance novels, all those girly fantasies about finding your   
other half, that part of yourself that was separated from you and placed inside   
somebody else at the dawn of time, all that crap was nothing more than some   
sweet dreams and faked illusions forged by some romance authors to increase   
their sales.  
  
But at that moment, dancing under the moon and the stars – tightly pressed   
against Xander's chest, feeling his heart beating strong and sure against her   
own, his arms around her, immersed and drowning in his warmth – Cordelia hadn't   
been able to help but think otherwise.  
  
And then, at the perfect time, he had kissed her. Slow and gentle, just his lips   
caressing hers, slightly opening them so their breaths could mingle and their   
mouths know the taste of each other.  
  
And Cordy had just known.  
  
Xander was the one. Her one and only.  
  
And now she knew, after wasting all their chances, after wasting so much time,   
that she had lost him.  
  
There. She had said it. She had lost him. She was never going to see him again.   
The certainty of it fell on her like a ton of bricks, suffocating her,   
asphyxiating her.  
  
Walking along the high school hallways, wondering how and when she had made it   
from her house, feeling the bitter tears coming once more to her eyes, she felt   
once again that void inside her.  
  
Telling her that she had lost her biggest chance at happiness, even before ever   
really knowing it.  
  
And it was killing her. His loss was making her die.  
  
Almost not knowing what she was doing, she made it to her locker, barely   
noticing at the edge of her awareness the odd looks that all those that crossed   
her path sent to her.  
  
That, and the hushed conversations that her passing by was generating in the   
narrow hallways.  
  
Seeing the ornaments for Valentine's Day still hanging from the walls, the paper   
hearts, the red bows that adorned the doorframes, she felt a cold shiver rock   
her insides, chilling her to the bone.  
  
It was a sappy and commercial celebration, but it could have been so much more   
for her. The exaltation of romance, the time to tell him her real   
feelings...their first anniversary.  
  
Shivering, her fingers closed over the metal lock. She was about to open the   
door, thinking about leaving her textbooks inside it and rushing to the library   
to talk with Giles about continuing the search, when she noticed a presence   
behind her. Almost breathing down her neck.  
  
Very slowly, she turned around to face a very pissed-off Harmony and her group   
of snobby sheep, who were looking at her as if her mere proximity was causing   
them to have a deep case of nausea.  
  
Harmony raised an eyebrow slightly and, with her hands on her waist, took a long   
and slow look at her from head to toe, cringing with distaste.  
  
Cordelia followed the path traced by her eyes, and could not help but be   
surprised at her own appearance. A comfortable and used sweater over her   
T-shirt, sneakers and worn-out jeans – hardly what would be expected from the   
dreaded prosecutor of the ugly and unfashionable.  
  
"Well, it's official then," the blonde girl said with a deep bitter note in her   
voice, "you're one of them."  
  
Sighing, Cordelia turned away from her, avoiding her accusatory glare and trying   
to concentrate on the combination of her locker's lock. "I do not have time for   
this, Harmony," she told her former best friend without looking at her.  
  
The blonde snorted like a bad-mannered small dog, and looked at the rest of the   
sheep with amusement. "Sure, being a loser is such a demanding job that it has   
to take up all your spare time. Let me ask you something, Cordy," she said,   
almost turning her nickname into a bad joke, "do you have to take classes for   
it, or do you just become one by oxmofis?"  
  
Stopping her fumbling with the lock, the brunette looked at her sideways. "It's   
osmosis, you airhead," she corrected her with an acid-dripping tone. "Why don't   
you try reading something that doesn't contain 20 different euphemisms for male   
genitalia, for a change?"  
  
The sheep around Harmony couldn't help but giggle at hearing this and Cordelia,   
feeling a smug grin of satisfaction coming to her lips, mentally scratched   
another notch on her belt.  
  
Shifting uncomfortably on her feet, the blonde girl looked hard at the brunette   
one. "So, I have to accept the fact that you've abandoned all hope of being a   
normal person and launched yourself into your dear frog-man's arms? Where is the   
mighty loser, anyway?"  
  
As she felt Cordelia's body stilling in front of her as if a lightning bolt had   
struck her, paralyzing her former mentor, Harmony thought that she had obtained   
a real bull's-eye and decided to go on. "Hmmm, so, what, Cordy? Did you have a   
good Valentine's Day in Dork Land? Enjoyed the time you spent with that useless   
idiot? Finally done it with that good-for-nothing loser?"  
  
=Good-for-nothing loser.= That was it. That was what she'd called him that   
horrible night. That was what had driven him away from her. That, by definition,   
was what had made her lose him.  
  
She never knew where it came from but, before even she knew what she was doing,   
her books were falling to the floor and the palm of her right hand was crossing   
Harmony's face with a hard slap that resounded along the hallway with the force   
of a cannon shot.  
  
Cordelia had turned around to hit her so fast that her ponytail swung wildly   
over her shoulder and her slap carried so much strength, that the impact   
destabilized Harmony and the blonde ended leaning on the row of lockers for   
support.  
  
As her books bounced on the floor, her gaze locked with Harmony's blue-eyed and   
surprised one.  
  
For a second, a thick blanket of silence fell like a shadow on the crowded   
hallway and all eyes were on them. The students of all classes, football players   
and cheerleaders, jocks and computer nerds, bookworms and vandals, even some   
teachers and administrative personnel stopped dead in their tracks, and looked   
at them in astonished silence.  
  
The sheep behind Harmony looked at each other with open-mouthed amazement,   
wondering what to do. Harmony, her face covered by a cloud of wild golden hair   
and the crimson print of Cordelia's hand beginning to appear on her cheek,   
looked up to the brunette with a mixture of fear and surprise on her face.  
  
Even before she could figure what to do or say, the blazing fury in the head   
cheerleader's reddened hazel eyes told her it was better to keep her mouth shut.  
  
"Don't you ever dare to talk about him like that," Cordelia harshly whispered to   
her in a low and threatening tone. Nonetheless, a slow and burning tear began to   
trace a wet path down the pale skin of her cheek.  
  
"He's better than you. Or me. He is way better than what you could ever dream to   
be. He's better than any of you!!" she practically screamed, turning around to   
face all the curious crowd gathered around them, whose members were looking now   
at each other as if they were facing a madwoman.  
  
Facing Harmony once again, Cordelia practically spat her next words in her face.   
"If you ever dare to put down the man I love again, I swear to you that I'll-"  
  
Nevertheless, the brunette's menace was cut short by a deeply nasal and twanging   
voice that made both of them turn around. "Bwhat the hell is gwoin' on here?"  
  
Turning around, both the blonde and the brunette faced the strange apparition   
that was Principal Snyder wearing a patch over his obviously swollen nose, and   
looking at them with blackened eyes.  
  
It was quite clear that someone had given him a run for his money. "Dwon't you   
have anythin' else to do?" he asked to no one in particular. "Clwasses to   
atten'? People to stalk? Gwalls to spway-paint?"  
  
As people began to walk away, mumbling and whispering animatedly between them,   
sending amused looks at Cordelia and Harmony, the high school principal walked   
closer to the girls.  
  
He was so near in fact, that Cordelia was able to notice (much to her loathing)   
the tampons in his nose, stained with dried blood. And the disgusting white   
traces of dried saliva at the corner of his lips, produced by the fact that he   
had to breathe through his mouth.  
  
"Dyou," he said pointing at the sheep, "gwo agway. Dyou," he added taking   
Harmony's chin in his hand, making her shiver at the contact and slightly   
turning her head around to examine her reddened cheek.   
  
"Gwo agway and put somethin' on dat. An' dyou," Snyder added, finally facing   
Cordelia and letting out a tired sigh that sounded like a dry cough. "I can't   
tell dyou bwhat a disappointmen' dyou mean' to me, Miss Chwase."  
  
Rolling her eyes, Cordelia just made a face, too tired and wired up by the worry   
and lack of sleep to stand a lecture from the balding little troll.  
  
Nevertheless, she decided to remain in silence, thinking that with a little   
luck, she could get free from him in a few moments.  
  
But of course, that kind of ending was the farthest one from Snyder's mind.  
  
"Dyou are, or I shoul' say were one of the mos' promisin' students of 'dis, for   
de mos' par', padthetic group of hormone-filled liddle mwonsters, Miss Chwase.   
Buth' now? Now dyour face shoul' figure on a poster abouth bwhat bad company can   
do to a gworl. You've tudned into one of dem," he finished, awkwardly spitting   
out the words as if they were disgusting to his mouth.  
  
Cordelia just looked at him, through half-closed eyes. "At least my face still   
can figure in a poster, which is more than what I can say for others," she   
answered him, each one of her words dripping an acid sarcasm that obviously   
passed some inches over Snyder's balding head.  
  
Then, making one of those lovable pouts that she knew turned every guy into a   
babbling puddle, she raised her hand to softly caress his patched nose. "Oooh,   
poor principal," she purred, getting a look of surprise from the little troll,   
"I bet this hurts a lot."  
  
"Gwe-gwell," his twanging voice said, "'da wors' par', is dat I can't bweathe   
cowwectly..." As if to confirm his last words, he gulped down a mouthful of   
saliva before choking up with it and panting painfully, sounding too much like a   
broken accordion.  
  
Still smiling innocently, Cordelia tilted slightly her head to one side and   
closed the space that separated them, each one of her words coming out in a soft   
pop of warm air that caressed the principal's face as her fingers traced and   
idle pattern around his nose. "Well, you know the best cure for that?"  
  
"N-no, bwhat?"  
  
Suddenly, Cordelia trapped Snyder's broken nasal appendage between her index and   
middle finger and closed them tightly, yanking painfully with all her strength.  
  
"Clearing the nostrils!!" she exclaimed, her voice barely audible over the   
principal's loud scream of pain and the crunching sound of the twisted and   
broken cartilage coming from his nose.  
  
"God!!" he shouted, violently breaking away from the furious brunette and   
bringing a hand to his face to stop the renewed hemorrhaging, before the blood   
had the chance to drip on his cheap suit. "Dyou are cwazy!! And dyou are goin'   
to pay fo' 'dis!!"  
  
In his haste to get away from the angered cheerleader, Snyder backpedaled   
without looking who was behind him, and without noticing that Giles and the rest   
of the Scooby Gang had silently gathered near them.  
  
Therefore, he wasn't able to notice when Buffy extended her left leg either,   
placing it in the short man's path and he clumsily stumbled upon it,   
ridiculously falling flat onto his ass to the floor.  
  
"Watch your step, Principal Snyder," the Slayer told him with a sweet smile.   
"You could fall and hurt yourself."  
  
Oz, who was the nearest to him, kneeled down and offered his support to him,   
only managing to make the process of standing up more awkward, complicated and   
compromising for Snyder's ego.  
  
"Le' me gwo!" he exclaimed, nervously slapping the red-haired boy's hands away.  
  
"Hey," Oz said, raising his arms in surrender, "Just wanted to help. I wasn't   
trying to cop a feel or anything like that."  
  
The principal looked at him through half-closed and blackened eyes, and then   
turned to Buffy and the rest, menacingly pointing at them with his finger.   
"Dyou... dyou..." Buffy raised her brow expectantly. "Dyou are gwoin' to pay for   
'dis. All of dyou!! And dyou," he turned around to Cordelia and pointed at her.  
  
The brunette took a step towards him and the principal recoiled as in fear,   
letting go a weak croak. "I'll see dyou in detention, Miss Chwase," he told her,   
quickly getting the hell away from her, "and dyou bedder be calmed down by den."  
  
Looking down at his retreating back as he unsuccessfully tried to regain some of   
his composure by shouting at a pair of innocent bypassing students, Buffy   
smoothly raised one of her eyebrows. "What's up with him?"  
  
Cordelia shrugged, uninterested, turning back to her locker. "The cat ate his   
nose."  
  
"How are you doing?" Willow asked her, while the brunette resumed her fumbling   
with the combination.  
  
Cordelia sighed, and leaned her forehead on the cold surface of the metallic   
door. "What do you think?"  
  
Willow got closer to her and, leaning a comforting hand on her shoulder made the   
taller brunette turn around and, slow and almost painfully, took her into her   
arms, enveloping her into a tight and fierce hug.  
  
Shaking with a thousand emotions that she wasn't able to completely understand,   
Cordelia felt herself breaking into quiet sobs, practically held up on her feet   
by the smaller redhead and completely forgetting about the people and students   
surrounding them.  
  
Feeling the bitter tears coming to her eyes too, Willow softly rocked her like a   
child, shushing her.  
  
Beside them, Buffy had to avert her eyes away feeling the sharp piercing pain of   
her guilt and self-blame – thinking that she had failed her friends once more,   
not only Xander but all of them.  
  
Then, to her amazement, she heard Cordelia's broken voice calling her. "Buffy."  
  
The blonde Slayer raised her eyes from the floor and found the brunette's arm   
extended to towards her while her other arm was still wrapped around Willow. The   
eyes of both girls, swollen, red and wet were looking at her with a   
heartbreaking mixture of pain and hope, begging her to take the next step.  
  
Biting her lower lip not to cry, and failing miserably, Buffy took a step   
towards her two friends and entered into their embrace, locking with them into a   
three-way hug, searching and finding comfort in the shared pain, in the mutual   
feelings.  
  
It was in different ways, expressed with dissimilar words, but it was a truth as   
big as the universe that the three of them loved Xander Harris.  
  
Somewhere near them, some clueless idiot let out an insinuating whistle and   
somebody else laughed along with it. Both Oz and Giles turned around immediately   
and glared at the pair of jocks, their usually controlled faces now turned into   
harsh masks of barely-repressed rage.  
  
The two guys looked at each other and, deciding that discretion was indeed the   
better part of valor, quickly walked away.  
  
Then, when the three girls finally broke apart, Giles coughed politely, getting   
their attention. "I'm, um, afraid...th-that you need to get to class."  
  
"Are we going to abandon the search?" Cordelia asked him, with a little more   
bitterness than what she'd intended.  
  
Sighing, understanding her, Giles took off his glasses and settled his sincere   
green gaze on her. "There's nothing more that anyone can do for now, Cordelia.   
We've searched the whole town for the last two days, and I've filed a missing   
persons report with the police department. The only thing we can do right now is   
to keep an eye on the hospitals, to see if someone with Xander's physical   
description is admitted."  
  
"And the morgue," Cordelia practically spat out, looking at him with almost   
accusatory eyes. Avoiding her gaze, Giles nodded sadly, not able to voice the   
words.   
  
"How come you made the report?" Oz suddenly asked him.  
  
Blinking in surprise at the question, using the moment to place his glasses back   
over his nose and gather his thoughts, Giles took out a little piece of paper   
from the interior pocket of his tweed jacket. "Oh, yes, I-I almost forgot.   
Xander's parents refused to make one."  
  
"What?" Buffy asked with incredulity. "How can they-?"  
  
"I-it seems that they're convinced that, um, Xander has run away from home. They   
received an official notification announcing that Xander was expelled from the   
high school on Friday night because of a, uh, physical aggression on the person   
of our dear Principal Snyder."  
  
"Xander broke Snyder's nose?" Willow asked with surprise. "Why would he do   
something like that?"  
  
Giles shrugged helplessly, he knew as much as they did. "Snyder d-doesn't   
exactly seem prone to explain the precise facts to anybody, but h-he has   
commented that he is thinking on suing Xander's parents. That would explain why   
they don't want to see him right now, i-if what I've gathered about Xander's   
family life is correct."  
  
"Maybe he really has run away," Willow said, her sea-green eyes bright with   
reborn hope. "Don't you think so? Maybe he'll call in a few days, and tell us   
that he's alright."  
  
"Yeah," Buffy joined her, almost fearing to hope, "he'll probably be very   
confused right now. Lord knows I was, when I... well, you know. What do you   
think, Cordelia?"  
  
The brunette looked at her in silence. How could she explain it to her? How   
could she tell them that there was an empty spot in her soul, that was telling   
her in quite unmistakable terms that Xander was no longer walking the earth? How   
could she?  
  
"Maybe," she just said, recovering her books from the floor and turning around   
to put them into her locker. "Maybe."  
  
Closing her eyes for a second, trying to regain her equilibrium after a short   
wave of dizziness hit her, Cordelia fumbled with the lock until she was finally   
able to produce the right combination and it popped open with a click.  
  
She opened the door.  
  
Something fell from the interior of her locker, hitting her face and making her   
backpedal and yelp in surprise. It was something cold and soft, and for a   
second, she thought that someone had put a live frog into her locker, wanting to   
pull a practical joke on her.  
  
But it wasn't a frog. It wasn't any innocent joke.  
  
It wasn't even alive.  
  
For an endless moment, a thick silence fell around them; people kept walking   
around the gang, not noticing them, as if they were invisible. The group of   
friends looked at the thing falling from the interior of the locker in slow   
motion, not wanting to believe what their eyes were seeing.  
  
A hand with long and slender, almost feminine, fingers matted with blood that   
seemed almost brown after having dried upon the pale, white skin.  
  
A naked arm attached to it, the elbow joint twisted in an odd, impossible angle.   
  
  
Following its path, their eyes ascended into the darkness of the locker. None of   
them were breathing. None of them said anything.  
  
Then Willow screamed. Loud, hard, and with the sound of pure and unadulterated   
spiritual pain.  
  
Everything around them stopped, as dozens of heads turned around towards them.  
  
Submerged in the thick haze of confusion, Cordelia felt herself distancing from   
the scene, as if she watching a movie or something.  
  
Someone else screamed. Someone cried out like a wounded animal. Yet another   
someone cursed violently.  
  
Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed how a very pale Oz ran to Willow and   
took her in his arms, before her body hit the ground when the red-haired   
hacker's legs weren't able to hold her up anymore. For a short second, the   
brunette turned around and looked at all of them.  
  
Buffy was beyond pale; she looked like a ghost, her lips were trembling with   
sorrow and rage. Her eyes were wet with tears, that slowly began to roll down   
her cheeks.  
  
Giles was pale too, but he also looked surprisingly lost and suddenly twenty   
years older. His lips were moving, but no sound came out of them and she had to   
read them to understand that he was repeating the same two words one time after   
another, as if they were a mantra. 'No please, no please, no please...'  
  
Still in slow motion, Cordelia turned around once more and tilted her head to   
one side. Strangely, all she was able to think about was that whoever had put   
him into her locker had had to break a lot of his bones, just to make him fit   
into the narrow space of the enclosure. His legs, his arms, his backbone and   
spine...  
  
Had Xander still been alive? Had he screamed and fought while he was pushed into   
that darkness, feeling his bones splintering like thin wooden branches – his   
insides broken and bleeding, pierced by his own bones?  
  
If so, his face didn't reflect that suffering, and Cordelia indulged herself the   
fantasy that his death had been quick and painless. He was pale, his head turned   
to her, leaned on his knees, which were pushed up against his chest in an angle   
that was humanly impossible.  
  
His brown eyes were closed, and his generous mouth was shut into a thin line. If   
it hadn't been for the bloodstains and the open wounds, someone could think that   
he was just sleeping.  
  
Not knowing what she was doing, Cordelia went closer. She was beginning to feel   
the brunt of her own tears escaping from her eyes, but she ignored them as if   
they belonged to another person.  
  
There was dried blood matting his cheeks and lips.  
  
She caressed his handsome face. He was cold.  
  
His lips were still soft, as was the unshaven hair under his nose and around his   
mouth. How many times he had joked about growing a moustache and a goatee in the   
last few years? Something to look a little cooler?  
  
How many times had she laughed, when those same hairs had tickled her lips when   
he kissed her?  
  
How many times?  
  
However many there had been, there were not going to be any more.  
  
Why wasn't she screaming? She couldn't tell. Maybe it was the shock. Maybe it   
was that she couldn't gather enough strength in her lungs to do it. Maybe it was   
that she couldn't accept the truth. Maybe...  
  
"Cordelia," a voice said behind her at the same time that a set of strong hands   
leaned on her shoulders. Through the thick mist of unreality that was   
surrounding her, she recognized Giles' voice calling her name. "Cordelia, don't   
look at him... Cordelia..."  
  
With a violent, almost enraged shake of her shoulders, the girl shrugged away   
his hands, never taking her eyes from her loved one's pale face.  
  
=I never told you I loved you,= her soul cried inside her. =I never let you know   
how much you meant to me. I never showed you how important you were to me. You   
never knew, you never knew, you never, never, never...=  
  
There was something stuck on his body – a piece of paper placed on his lap,   
attached to his skin with a piece of adhesive. With trembling hands, Cordelia   
took it.  
  
A paper-heart card, almost brown with the thick smears of his bloodstains.  
  
Using the back of her hand to wipe her eyes, she used her other hand to open it.  
  
It was one of those pre-made ones, that were exchanged during the most romantic   
festival of the year. Something to show your significant other how much you care   
about them, a gift, a memento.  
  
There were three words, and an initial. Written in blood.  
  
Three words.  
  
'Be my Valentine.'  
  
And an initial.  
  
'F.'  
  
Everything turned dark, as her eyes began to lose focus. Cordy felt weak, her   
head light as if she were beginning to fly away. She was suddenly weightless   
and, almost from a distance, she saw her friends gathering around her, looking   
down.  
  
She never felt the impact of her body against the floor, or anything else around   
her when everything turned as dark as the interior of a wolf's mouth.  
  
The cheerleader just closed her eyes, and surrendered to sweet and painless   
oblivion.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
To be continued... 


	2. Part 2 of 8

DR2 - The Cross of Changes by Nick Midian, Book II, part 2 of 8   
  
Written by Nick Midian   
  
Content beta-reading and storyline suggestions by Duncan  
English grammar, spelling, slang, Highlander continuity and general corrections   
by Theo  
French slang, content beta-reading and storyline suggestions by Mash  
French slang by Alan  
  
  
EMAIL: jcaballero@euskalnet.net  
  
WEBSITE: http://www.angelfire.com/tv2/thedarkages  
  
SPOILERS: For Buffy the Vampire Slayer: 3rd season, BUT no Xander/Willow kissing   
and no Lover's Walk (welcome to the wonderful State of Denial, Land of   
'Shippiness). Hmmm, I've messed with the third season's timeline to accommodate   
it to my necessities. Let's just say that 'Band Candy' happened a lot later than   
it did, around the first days of February, OK?  
For Highlander: None really, the characters of the TV series and films are only   
tangentially mentioned. You just need to know the basics of Highlander-style   
immortality, BUT I've always thought that whole 'Immortals have no parents and   
are found in a little basket' is a... um, the Spanish word for it is 'chorrada',   
so let's just ignore it, OK?  
KEYWORDS: Romance, Angst, Action-adventure, Violence, Alternate Universe,   
Crossover.  
RATING: PG-13 with some mild R parts for violence and sexual innuendo.  
DISCLAIMER: This story has been written with no intention of profit, merely for   
the pleasure of writing and sharing it.  
The concept and characters of BTVS (Buffy, Angel, Cordelia, Xander, Willow, Oz,   
Giles, Joyce, Spike, Drusilla, Snyder, Faith, Harmony, Lyle Gorch, Quentin   
Travers and the rest) are intellectual and legal property of Joss Whedon, Warner   
Brothers, Mutant Enemy, etc. Also, the concept of Highlander and the characters   
mentioned here (Duncan MacLeod, Amanda Darieux, Richie Ryan, Joe Dawson and the   
Society of Watchers) are the property of Panzer-Davis and Rysher Entertainment.  
Michael Deveraux, Rachel Curran, Crystal Parker, Kyle White Owl, Robert   
Coltrane, Elvis the Dog, Broderick Egoyan, Damon Frost, Mr. Smith, the World   
Committee for Civil Defense and the rest are my own creation.  
All the songs and lyrics here are used without permission, they are copyright of   
their respective rights owners.  
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Please, understand that English is not my native language, so   
any grammatical or spelling errors are my fault, not of any one of my wonderful   
beta-readers. If you're thinking of sending any flames, please be kind with me.   
I'm a grown man, but I still can cry like a child, believe me.  
Additional Author's Note: The songs performed by Oz's band are 'Loli Jackson'   
and 'Serenade' by Dover. It appears courtesy of Subterfuge records. All rights   
reserved, yadda, yadda, yadda...   
SUMMARY: After the events in 'Dark Reflection' a new threat menaces both the   
Slayerettes and the Archangels as new and old enemies come to Sunnydale, merging   
past and present. This time, it's something personal - ta-da-da-dam!!! (sorry,   
but I just had to say that)  
  
And now, on with the show. Fasten your seat belts ladies and gentlemen, because   
it's going to be a long, hard and jumpy ride...   
  
~~~~~~  
  
The cast for Book II  
  
  
Nicholas Brendon as Xander Harris  
Charisma Carpenter as Cordelia Chase  
  
Sarah Michelle Gellar as Buffy Summers  
David Boreanaz as Angel  
Alyson Hannigan as Willow Rosenberg  
Seth Green as Daniel 'Oz' Osborne  
Anthony Stewart Head as Rupert Giles  
Kristine Sutherland as Joyce Summers  
  
Matthew Perry as Michael Deveraux  
Paula Trickey as Rachel Curran  
James Marsters as Spike  
Nikki Cox as Crystal Parker  
David James Elliott as Kyle White Owl  
Elvis the Dog as Himself  
  
Eliza Dushku as Faith Adams  
Donald Sutherland as The Old Chess Player, Broderick Egoyan  
Sebastian Spence as Damon Frost  
Avery Brooks as Mr. Smith  
  
Mercedes MacNab as Harmony Kendall  
Armin Shimerman as Principal Snyder  
Amy Chance as Aphrodesia  
Persia White as Aura  
  
Alan Rickman as Conrad Swann  
Wesley Snipes as Talon Pantera  
Dennis Rodman as Rush Pantera  
Tom Berenger as Colonel Cabbot Ashe  
Michael Ironside as the Sergeant  
Trevor Goddard as Backlash  
Shaquille O'Neal as Beast  
Jet Li as Bushido  
  
with  
  
Kevin Spacey as Robert Coltrane  
Nicholas Lea as Jonah Whalls  
and  
Catherine Zeta-Jones as the Lady in Red  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
When the doctor called him, Giles needed a few seconds to decipher his words as   
they crossed the thick layer of fog that surrounded his mind. When he was   
finally able to understand the mystic complexities of the words 'Rupert Giles',   
he stood up from his chair and walked to the man dressed in the white lab coat.  
  
Oddly, all he was able to think of was that the man, who carried a little   
nametag hanging from the upper pocket of the coat that read 'Dr. Limus', looked   
surprisingly much like a TV actor, whose name he couldn't remember now even to   
save his own life.  
  
"Are you Rupert Giles?" the young doctor asked him again.  
  
Looking at him with unfocused eyes, Giles frowned and shook his head in a sharp   
nod. He passed a hand over his tired features, and sighed like a balloon losing   
all the air that gave life to him. "Y-yes, I'm Rupert Giles."  
  
Nodding and arching his brow, probably too accustomed to this kind of thing for   
his own good, the young doctor turned around, taking an apple out of the pocket   
of his white coat.  
  
"Follow me," he told Giles, before taking a greedy bite from the apple and a   
look at the file he carried in his other hand.  
  
"May I ask, what was the exact nature of your relationship with the late..." he   
took a more careful look at the file, checking the dead man's name with the   
boredom of one who had done this kind of thing one-too-many times, "...Mr.   
Harris?"  
  
=Xander. His name was Xander.= That was what those who cared about him had   
called the young man.  
  
Harris was what the others had called him. The jocks. The people that didn't   
really know him. Those who had never noticed what a valuable young man he was.   
Brave beyond belief, strong in the times of necessity, loyal to those he loved.  
  
Probably the greatest hero Giles had ever known.  
  
"I was his teacher," he succinctly told the doctor.  
  
"Really?" the doctor asked, with an expression of surprise. He then shrugged. "I   
never had a teacher so good in high school, that I put him down as the person to   
call in case of an emergency."  
  
It was one of the greatest and cruelest truths in life that most of the time,   
you don't really know what you've got 'til you lose it.  
  
Giles thought it would be a lie to say that he had always been conscious of how   
important Xander had been for all of them. Not only as an aid to the always   
dangerous labor of Slayage, but as a rock on which all of them had leaned on in   
the worst of times.  
  
When the danger and the pain seemed to overwhelm them and he had made a quick   
joke, why hadn't he thought that he was as scared as the rest of them, that he   
was only trying to protect himself from the pain and the fear?  
  
Why had he only thought that Xander was just an annoying kid?  
  
When the chips had been down and the boy had always been there, nervously   
jumping from foot to foot, had he valued the fact that Xander hadn't run away   
screaming at the top of his lungs but stayed, covering their backs?  
  
Or had he just thought that Xander was an impediment, somebody that only slowed   
down and endangered them?  
  
"He was my friend," Giles softly said, not caring if the young doctor heard him   
or not.  
  
If so, he didn't acknowledge it and limited himself to leading Giles through the   
intricate web of corridors and hallways from the waiting room, to that cold and   
empty place where the still corpse of his young pupil lay in repose, waiting for   
the moment of his burial.  
  
He had been Giles' friend. He had been there when he had been needed. He had   
been there even when he had been ignored, and shoved aside by those who so   
eagerly called themselves his friends. He had been there for them all so many   
times, it was impossible to count.  
  
But, had Rupert Giles been his friend? Had he returned his bravery, his   
friendship, his undying loyalty? Had he been there when Xander had needed him?  
  
In spite of his words to Buffy just a couple of days before, he wasn't very sure   
he could say yes.  
  
Now that everything was over, it was easy to look back and, examining those warm   
brown eyes, understand the depth of his feelings – to see his loneliness, and   
the silent cry for help that his sarcastic humor had hidden.  
  
Why had he never seen him doing anything else, apart from the activities related   
to the school and their after-hours job? Why had he always been so absorbed that   
he had never worried that he had no friends, outside of their tight little   
circle?  
  
Why had he never told him how proud he was of him?  
  
Why had he never told him that he loved him?  
  
As a friend. As a brother-in-arms. As the son he'd never had.  
  
Life is just a succession of moments that pass us by so fast, that we don't have   
the proper time to cherish them. And, once out of our grasp, they seem so   
important that they take our attention away from the ones that are still coming   
to us.  
  
In this particular case, he had fallen into his own trap – getting too caught up   
in the web of a life so complicated, that it had obscured even the most simple   
pleasures of existence. Friendship, brother- and father-hood.  
  
They had lost him. And, dear God, he had no idea of how they were going to   
manage to keep on going.  
  
"Here we are," the doctor announced when they entered into room at the end of   
the hallway and quickly walked to the neat rows of refrigerated chambers that   
held the bodies of those who had understood the final truth about life.  
  
Sooner or later, it ends.  
  
The young doctor, still happily munching on his apple, opened one of the   
chambers in the central row and extended the litter that, guided on metallic   
rails, carried a body on it, covered by a white blanket as a concession to   
modesty.  
  
Giles felt something beginning to break inside him. A painful sensation that he   
had only felt once before, the same moment he had found Jenny Calendar's body   
lying on his bed.  
  
The realization of the fact that a loved one was dead, that they would never be   
there again in the good times or bad. That there would be no more shared   
happiness or sorrow, no more smiles and tears, no more laughter and crying.  
  
And then the doctor (Jerry O'Connell, he looked like the young actor from that   
sci-fi series that had captivated him during his first new months in a strange   
land, far away from his beloved England) finally put aside the white sheet.   
Uncovering his face, Rupert Giles had to make a strong effort not to fall to his   
knees.  
  
"Is it him?" the doctor asked.  
  
Was it him? Were those his features? They couldn't be. The boy he remembered   
didn't have half of his face so swollen, that it was almost unrecognizable.  
  
He didn't have those horrible wounds on his forehead and brow, so deep and open   
that the white of the bone was visible through its separated edges.  
  
He reached with a trembling hand and caressed his cold forehead, softly   
smoothing the locks of dark hair, sticky with a mix of dried blood and other   
fluids he didn't want to know about.  
  
He felt the tears coming out of his green eyes then, as a sob of pain managed to   
escape from his lips.  
  
"Is it him?" the doctor insisted. "Do you officially recognize this body as the   
one of Alexander L. Harris?"  
  
Giles raised his green eyes from the face of the body, and looked hard at young   
Jerry O'Connell look-a-like. Then, choking down a sob, he answered him. "Yes, he   
is."  
  
Nodding, the young doctor scribbled some notes in the file and looked at the   
middle-aged librarian. "If you'll follow me, Mr. Giles, we'll finish up the   
paperwork and you'll be free to return to your daily routine."  
  
Taking his eyes away from him, Giles returned to looking at Xander's face. He   
couldn't believe he was dead.  
  
He couldn't accept it. It wasn't fair. It wasn't right. It wasn't how things   
should be.   
  
Leaning down on him, he placed a soft and tender kiss on the boy's forehead. "I   
love you, Xander," he told him, wishing he would be able to hear him.  
  
Then, caressing his hair one last time, he said goodbye to him and walked behind   
the young doctor, getting out of that damned hellish room.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
"Why didn't you call his parents?" Giles asked the doctor moments later, while   
he finished signing the legal papers.  
  
"We tried," Dr. Limus told him while examining the papers to check they were   
properly completed. "But it seems like they're pretty hard to get in touch   
with."  
  
With a shrug, he placed a new set of papers in front of the librarian, and   
pointed at the dotted lines. "Please, put your name here, here and here, and   
your initials there and there."  
  
Sighing, Giles did as he was told. "May I know what was the official cause of   
death?" he asked without raising his green eyes from the papers, not wanting the   
young doctor to see the rage that was slowly but surely boiling up in them.  
  
Leaning on the desk, Dr. Limus shrugged. "Probably some kind of animal attack,"   
he told the librarian, whose hand immediately stopped its flow over the papers.   
"A large animal – that would explain the wounds, the bite marks and the broken   
bones."  
  
Giles felt his fingers tightening painfully on the pen he was using and tried to   
concentrate on that activity, not to explode at the younger man's stupidity. Or   
maybe it wasn't stupidity, maybe it was worse.  
  
"Large?" he asked. "You mean like a bear, for example?"  
  
The doctor nodded. "Yeah, a bear. That'd make sense."  
  
On hearing this, Giles couldn't help but to leave the pen on the flat surface of   
the desk. Then, very slowly, she stood up, and, after taking off his glasses and   
carefully putting them in the interior pocket of his jacket, he settled his hard   
eyes on the young doctor.  
  
Dr. Limus raised his eyes from the papers and looked back at him. Immediately,   
he did a double-take.  
  
Where had the middle-aged, broken man gone to? And who was that avenging angel   
in front of him, looking down at him with burning green eyes that held no mercy   
or remorse?  
  
When Giles spoke again, the cold but barely controlled tone he used only   
reinforced the younger man's impression of him. This man in front of him seemed   
very capable of causing him a great deal of physical harm. He seemed even eager   
to do so.  
  
"Are you trying to tell me that an animal," Giles began, invading the young   
doctor's personal space, practically pushing him against the wall, "a bear of   
all things, attacked that boy, killed him and then stashed him into a locker of   
the municipal high school? Do you really expect me to believe that?"  
  
Giles leaned closer to him, almost touching his nose with his. "Do I look like   
I'm retarded, perchance?"  
  
Dr. Limus blinked, and gulped down nervously. "Well, uh, ah, I... I mean, I..."  
  
With a menacing growl, Giles ripped the medical file away from the doctor's   
hands and moved away from him, beginning to flip through its contents.  
  
"Hey!" the young doctor protested. "That's privileged information, you can't-"  
  
Giles cut him off with just a look; the doctor shut his mouth and, deciding it   
would be safer for him to remain silent, let himself fall onto the nearest   
chair.  
  
Putting on his spectacles again, Giles went through the contents of the file,   
reading them with critical and expert eyes. Feeling his insides freeze, he read   
through the coroner's preliminary examination.  
  
Multiple bone fractures.  
  
Deep lacerations.  
  
Pierced hands and ankles.  
  
Open wounds.  
  
Massive blood loss.  
  
The words jumped to his eyes, as if they were alive and hostile. So much pain,   
so much suffering. Had he begged for his life? Had he cried like a child? Had he   
thought of them as that monster tortured him, thinking himself alone and   
abandoned?  
  
He closed the file with a ragged slap, and turned around to face the doctor with   
a hard look. "When will you have the complete autopsy results?" he asked with a   
ragged voice.  
  
The doctor swallowed nervously. "There isn't gonna be a full autopsy," he stated   
simply.  
  
Giles slammed the file on the desk, making the doctor yelp in surprise when his   
slap on the wooden surface resounded like a gunshot inside the small office.   
"Are you seriously trying to tell me that you're not going to do an   
investigation, in so clear a case of homicide?"  
  
For a moment, the two men looked at each other in silence. "We rarely do them in   
so... obvious a case," the doctor eventually murmured.  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
Dr. Limus avoided Giles' intense stare and looked away, as if in shame. "You   
know, in this kind of case. We just want to get rid of them as soon as possible,   
and he has all the signs."  
  
Giles' sigh sounded almost painful. "Explain yourself."   
  
"His body heat's dropped to ambient temperature, and then risen and fallen again   
until it stabilized at 15 degrees Celsius, making it impossible to calculate the   
exact moment of death. And there's also been no apparent degeneration of the   
organic tissue, even though there's no brain or heart activity. That's   
consistent with what I've seen in the others, when they're going to... to turn."  
  
The doctor remained in silence for a moment, as if doubting whether to continue   
or shut up. Licking his lips with nervousness, he decided to continue. "And   
there's something else..."  
  
"What!?!" Giles insisted, grabbing Dr. Limus by the lapels of his white lab   
coat, effortlessly lifting him as if he weighed nothing and finally pushing him   
against the wall.  
  
"Th-there's some kind of electrical activity associated with the central nervous   
system. I can't explain it – I-I haven't seen anything like that before. Not   
even in the others. It's as if his body is acting like some kind of collector,   
gathering up all the ambient electricity, kinda like an electric battery."  
  
Releasing him, Giles stepped back sighing and passing a tired hand over his   
face. "But the bottom line is that... h-he is going to turn. Oh dear God, he's   
going to turn."  
  
Coughing, regaining his vertical posture, Dr. Limus rearranged his white coat,   
smoothing out the wrinkles caused by Giles' grasp. "I'm afraid so," he said.  
  
The man then continued, "And we don't want him here when that happens. So we'd   
like you or whoever to take charge of him, to take him away and give him a   
proper burial or whatever as soon as possible."  
  
Side-stepping him, the young doctor didn't wait for the older man's response and   
quickly began to go out the office, obviously wanting to get the hell away.  
  
"Who are we?" Giles asked him, at the last possible moment.  
  
"Pardon?" Dr. Limus said, turning around with a frown on his face.  
  
"We?" Giles insisted. "Who's this we that doesn't want the body of my friend   
around here? The we who knows the situation, and who remains silent?"   
  
For a moment, the young doctor looked at him as if he was crazy. "If you need to   
ask that," he finally told him before getting out and losing himself in the cold   
interior of the Sunnydale morgue, "then you don't have any idea of what goes on   
in this town."  
  
~~~~~~  
  
The ghost that came out of the building that housed the city morgue, had very   
little resemblance to the man Buffy had grown to love like a father for the last   
few years.  
  
The gray bags under his clouded green eyes, and the five o'clock shadow on his   
pale face were unusual features on his otherwise maturely handsome face, and it   
could be said that he had the overall appearance of a very sick man.  
  
Taking away her hazel eyes from his figure, unable to look directly at him,   
Buffy wondered what her own appearance was like. Probably as bad as his, because   
she felt like crap.  
  
Or rather, she would love to feel like crap, because the truth was that she   
could hardly feel anything at all.  
  
It was like being numb.  
  
She figured that her current state couldn't be much different to the one of   
those people whose story starred in last week's 'Incredible but True'; someone   
who'd fallen into a frozen lake in Minnesota, or someplace where it seems to be   
perpetually winter. And who's rescued by his neighbors or, sometimes, his own   
dog.  
  
The doctors always seem the same in those places, saying the same things. 'He   
was clinically dead for some minutes, but we were able to revive him...'  
  
What was it like for those people, when they fell into those freezing waters?   
Was that numbness that took control of their bodies, like that same piercing   
cold that killed her breath on her lips, that might even stop the beating of her   
heart?  
  
She didn't know – but certainly, it felt like being clinically dead.  
  
The idea of Xander in that cold and concrete gray building, stashed inside one   
of those refrigerated chambers that would keep his body intact until the moment   
of his burial, seemed obscene to her.  
  
Her Xander-shaped friend, her brother in all but blood, had been the epitome of   
life.  
  
If there had been one thing in the last few years that had kept her grounded,   
that had prevented her from falling into that darkness that seemed to be the   
unavoidable destiny of all Slayers, that had been a light in her dark, that   
thing had been Xander Harris.  
  
Where everything had been tears, he had brought laughter.  
  
Where everything had been death, he had brought life.  
  
In that forever night that was her existence and destiny, he had been a shining   
light.  
  
If it was so easy to see it now, why she had never understood it before? Why had   
she always taken him for granted?  
  
These, and other, even more nagging questions, flooded into her mind as she   
raised her head to see her Watcher, mentor and friend walking to her. The most   
important ones, the most painful were, as always, the 'what ifs'.  
  
What if she hadn't allowed him, and all her friends, to plunge themselves so   
much into what was her responsibility and fate?  
  
Would he be still alive?  
  
What if she hadn't overlooked Faith, thinking that she would come back into the   
fold once she had worked out her issues?  
  
Would he be still with them?  
  
What if-  
  
"We have to talk to everybody," Giles told to her, bringing the blonde Slayer   
out of her reverie.  
  
She shook her head, confused. "What?"  
  
Fumbling with the keys, trying to open the door of his car, the middle-aged man   
looked at her over the roof of his aged car. "We have to discuss what we're   
going to do now."  
  
Buffy looked back at him, through half-closed eyes. "Is there really any need to   
say it?" she asked. "I'm gonna find Faith, and make her pay for this."  
  
"I'm not talking about that," he said, shifting in his seat and starting the   
engine, which coughed like a frog with a cold.  
  
"What, then?"  
  
Giles sighed deeply, and closed his eyes for a brief moment. Then, looking   
straight into her eyes, he said the only words that could make that horrible   
situation even worse.  
  
"Xander. He-he's going to come back. He's going to turn into a vampire."  
  
~~~~~~  
  
"What is there to discuss?" Cordelia asked a couple of hours later, when all of   
them were gathered in the library. "We're going to restore his soul, that's what   
we're going to do!"  
  
To say that she was a pale ghost of her usual self, would be an understatement.   
Her eyes were bloodshot and swollen by the tears, her skin was pale and feverish   
and the haunted expression on her face was the one of a person at the limits of   
her physical endurance.  
  
If she was still on her feet, it was thanks purely to the strength of her will.  
  
"I'm afraid it's not that easy," Giles said, taking off his glasses and rubbing   
the bridge of his nose.  
  
"Easy?" Cordelia exclaimed with incredulity. "You say easy?!? Of course it is!!   
If Xander's gonna rise we have to do the ritual, we have to give him his soul   
back!"  
  
"And what if it doesn't work?" Buffy asked, without turning around from her   
position by the nearest window, her eyes lost on the school campus, looking at   
the people walking across the grass, living their lives with normalcy, not   
knowing what she knew, free from her nightmares and her burdens. "What do we do   
then?"  
  
"What do you mean?" Oz inquired, while he helped Giles to place a set of books   
on the nearest table. "We've done it before."  
  
"Yeah," the Slayer said, finally turning around and facing them. "Three times,   
four if you count the one that Drusilla interrupted. And how many times have we   
had success? Once. A 25 % success rate is not exactly something we should be   
proud of, people."  
  
Before Cordelia could respond to her, Willow came out of Giles' office, looking   
tired, sick and helpless. She made a beeline towards her boyfriend, who lost no   
time in taking her into his comforting arms.  
  
"I've been on the phone with Xander's mother," she told them, "they're going...   
they're going..." she choked down a sob and took a deep breath, succeeding in   
not starting to cry again.  
  
"They're going to bury him tonight. There'll be a short ceremony in the chapel   
of the Parker Street cemetery, just family and friends, and then they'll..."   
Willow's voice died and she looked down, letting Oz take her to a seat and rock   
her softly like a child.  
  
"They sure are hurrying up," Cordelia snorted, removing an errant lock of dark   
hair from her face.  
  
"Well, they, um, they think that it'll be better for everybody to be quick about   
it, that Xander wouldn't have wanted anybody to suffer needlessly."  
  
"Yeah," the brunette said with a sad look, "as if they ever cared about what he   
felt or wanted. But I don't still understand why you seem so reluctant to do the   
ritual."  
  
"Because it won't work," a deep voice stated near them, making them turn around   
in surprise.  
  
Calmly walking out of the shadows, but still maintaining himself as far away as   
possible from the windows, Angel looked at them. He had a haunted and   
guilt-ridden expression that was so deep that it seemed excessive even on his   
face, so accustomed to having one there on it.  
  
Seeing him, Buffy quickly ran into his arms, allowing the souled vampire to   
envelope her into a fierce hug. "I'm sorry I wasn't able to come sooner, I..."  
  
"Sshh," the Slayer hushed his excuse, "don't say anything. Just hold me,   
please."   
  
Almost all the rest of their friends looked away uncomfortably, as Angel rocked   
Buffy softly in his arms, offering her all his love and comfort.  
  
Almost all of them but Cordelia, who just coughed harshly, getting their   
attention. "Could we just get back to the matter at hand, please? Which is why   
you don't want to have Xander back!!"  
  
"It's not that we don't want him back," Giles insisted tiredly. "God knows that   
no one would be happier than I if we could erase all that has happened, and   
bring Xander back to us – b-but we have to accept the fact, that that's not   
going to happen."  
  
"Angel," he told the dark-haired vampire, speaking directly at him for the first   
time in months, "could you explain yourself, please? Wh-why are you so sure the   
soul restoration ritual won't work with Xander?"  
  
Licking his lips, Angel looked at him with guilt reflected in his dark eyes. In   
spite of the months that had passed, it was still difficult for him to face the   
middle-aged man and not feel the shame and guilt of all the pain and suffering   
he had caused him.  
  
"I've been investigating, researching as you like to call it, the gypsy soul   
curse. It seems that those people did a pretty good job, when they forged it,"   
the vampire said slowly.  
  
"What do you mean?" Buffy inquired with a small frown.  
  
Guiding her to the rest of her friends, never looking directly at them, the   
souled vampire fought to find the correct words to explain himself. "They were a   
group of very old and wise gypsies, and they considered the curse a means of   
punishment to make a spirit suffer a righteous pain. In other words, they only   
wanted to curse someone who really deserved it."  
  
Curiously, it was Willow who was the first one that really understood the   
implications of his words. "Oh no..."  
  
"What is that supposed to mean?" Cordelia asked her, a nagging dread piercing   
her insides.  
  
"If I've understood Angel right," the redhead said, looking horrified at the   
vampire, "Xander needs to be guilty of something for us to be able to curse   
him."  
  
"That's it exactly, Willow," Angel confirmed, "otherwise the soul restoration   
ritual won't work."  
  
"That's why it didn't work with Faith the first time," Buffy realized. "But the   
second time... I saw her eyes glowing, so how was she able to do what she did to   
him?"  
  
Angel shrugged helplessly. "A moment of happiness? I don't know. That's a   
question which I can't answer, I'm sorry."  
  
"We can't let him kill an innocent passerby," Giles said, letting himself fall   
defeated onto the nearest chair.  
  
"Why not?" Cordelia asked, receiving surprised looks from everybody. "I mean,   
not an innocent person... but we could, I don't know, get some killer, or a drug   
dealer or somebody like that and, I don't know, give them to him."  
  
The blonde Slayer looked at her with incredulous eyes. "Yeah, like you'd toss a   
steak to a caged lion."  
  
"Right," the brunette nodded, thinking that she had gotten her point across.  
  
Buffy snorted, shaking her head. "You can't be serious."  
  
Cordelia looked suddenly angry. "You bet I'm goddamn serious!!" she exclaimed.   
"Xander has given himself for everybody throughout the years, he's made   
uncountable sacrifices for people he didn't even know and never asked for   
anything in return. Well, I say that they give something for him now. I say that   
they make the sacrifice!!"  
  
"Cordelia!" Giles shouted at her. "We can't do that, we can't assume the right   
of deciding who deserves to live and who deserves to die, we're not gods!!"  
  
"So, what, then?!?" she shouted back, at the verge of tears. "We just stand back   
and do nothing? Or bury him, stake him when he rises and let it all go, as if   
nothing happened? We can't do that. I can't do that!!"  
  
She turned away from all of them, hiding her face between her hands and openly   
beginning to cry. It seemed that crying was all that she had been doing for the   
last few days.  
  
Surprisingly for all of them, Angel was the one who reacted first and went to   
her. "Cordelia," he said to her, placing his hands on her shoulders.  
  
"Let me go!!" she shouted, shrugging him away with a shake of her shoulders.  
  
"Cordelia," he gently insisted, bringing his hands to her face, cupping it   
gently into his cold hands and lifting it so he would be able to look straight   
into her wet and reddened eyes. "I know it's hard to think clearly about it   
right now."  
  
He continued firmly, "And I know that you only want him back, that you'd gladly   
do whatever it takes... but you have to think in terms of what Xander would do,   
what he would want."  
  
Angel paused. "Do you really think that he'd like to live knowing that somebody   
died, just so he could get his soul back? Do you think he could even stand that   
idea? I know that I didn't know him as well as you did, but quite frankly I   
can't possibly believe that the answer would be yes."  
  
"That's easy for you to say," she responded, seriously looking at his dark eyes.   
"You've got your soul already."  
  
Walking away from him, the brunette girl looked away through the window, using   
the rays of daylight entering through the glass as a barrier that separated her   
from him. "Don't you think that it's absolutely ironic that you get to live like   
a human, and the only choices Xander has are to do it like a monster or to die   
at the hands of his only friends?"  
  
Closing his eyes for a brief moment, Angel looked at the floor. "I'm sorry."  
  
"I'm sure of that," Cordelia snorted, walking to the closet. "That's what all of   
you seem to do best. Feel sorry."  
  
"Where are you going?" Buffy asked her with a weak voice, seeing that she was   
taking her jacket.  
  
Not turning around to face her, Cordelia just put it on over her sweater. "It   
seems pretty obvious to me that there's nothing more I can do here, and I have   
to get ready. I don't know if you still remember, but I have a funeral to   
attend."  
  
Then, without uttering another word, she left them, walking out of the library.  
  
"What now?" Oz asked softly, bringing them out of their respective reveries.  
  
Sighing and putting on his glasses, Giles shook his head. "I-I don't know. I   
don't know what to do – I don't know if, uh, if there's even anything we can   
do."  
  
"You know?" Willow said, getting up from her boyfriend's lap. "Suddenly, Cordy   
doesn't sound so crazy to me. I mean, there's a lot of people out there that can   
barely be considered human – who says that they deserve to live more than   
Xander?"  
  
"Stop it," Giles said sharply. "We, we can't do that. We have not the right to   
take that decision, it's just not in our hands to do so!"  
  
"Then what? We just throw in the towel? Do nothing?"  
  
"It wouldn't work, anyway," Angel said, passing a hand through his hair.   
  
Buffy looked at him with a frown. "What?"  
  
"That idea, it wouldn't work." He settled his dark eyes on the Slayer, and she   
couldn't help but shiver when she saw Angelus' reflection in them. "A vampire is   
a predator, if he kills to feed he can't really be blamed for it."  
  
Buffy half-closed her eyes, looking at him with incredulity. "You can't be   
serious."  
  
"I am," he arched his brow, "dead serious, no pun intended. When a lion kills a   
gazelle, you don't consider it to be murder – it's just the way nature is, the   
big fish eating the little one. Killing to feed is the same, in the universal   
scheme of things; Xander wouldn't be considered guilty of any sin."  
  
Angel paused. "He would have to kill just for the pleasure of it, simply because   
he liked it..." his eyes fell on the Scooby Gang with all the force of his inner   
darkness, "...the same way I used to."  
  
"So we're right back where we started," Buffy said, turning around, not want to   
consider the implications of that right then. "Either we leave him free to kill   
innocent people, or we like dust him straight off the bat."  
  
"He is already dead," Giles stated, letting the words escape through his   
clenched teeth, "the thing that will rise from his coffin won't be Xander, but   
a-a monster that's inhabiting his body."  
  
"And there's nothing else we can do?" Willow asked him weakly, quickly losing   
all her hopes, seeing the future in front of her darker than what she had ever   
dreamed.  
  
Giles just closed his eyes, unable to look at her or any of the rest of them.  
  
There was indeed nothing else they could do.  
  
There was no hope.  
  
And the saddest part, the thing that made Giles' insides cringe in pure   
spiritual pain at that very moment, was knowing that the worst was yet to come.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
'Fall into the light.'  
  
That was what the voice was telling him to do.  
  
After what had seemed like eons of nothing more than pitch-black darkness and   
painful and surreal nightmares, there was now something else to hold on to.  
  
Something to maintain the integrity of his sanity in the middle of that   
whirlwind of strange dreams and whispered sensations, fed directly into his mind   
and soul.  
  
A voice, and a light in the darkness.  
  
The voice was strange and distorted, as if it was formed from the mixture of a   
thousand different throats. It was high-pitched and deep, ragged and sweet, it   
was shouting, muttering, screaming and murmuring.  
  
It was a cry and a whisper. It was a warning, a menace and an advisement, all   
wrapped up as one.  
  
And it was telling him to fall into the light.  
  
For the first time, he had spatial awareness and he felt himself abandoning his   
current state of existence. He was carried away by invisible arms, floating   
first and then falling at the speed of light to that faraway point of   
illumination, that shone in the distance like a star about to be born.  
  
He reached out to it, feeling the physical sensation of wind against his face,   
brushing his hair, drawing sweet tears from his eyes. The light came closer and   
closer, with each new beat of his heart.  
  
He smiled.  
  
He was coming back to life.  
  
The pain was gone. The suffering had ended.  
  
For a brief moment he just closed his eyes, and reveled in the peaceful   
sensation of free fall, opening his arms out wide, caressing the darkness around   
him as it was slowly vanishing into soft, silky tendrils. He spun and stalled   
like a bird, drawing slow and erratic circles like a fallen angel with broken   
wings.  
  
He felt at peace.  
  
The point of light grew and grew in front of his eyes and, as the bright light   
dissipated the darkness, he felt it warming his body, breathing life back into   
him.  
  
He felt his heart beating inside his chest. He felt the air coming into his   
lungs.   
  
He reached for, and fell into the light – and for a moment, the flash of it   
blinded him. For some seconds, seeing the stars shine under his closed eye-lids,   
he thought of himself falling into a real night; into the starry night sky of   
California, coming back like an astronaut that had been away from his home   
planet for a long time.  
  
Coming back to the ones he loved.  
  
Then he opened his eyes, and saw only darkness.  
  
But it was a different kind of darkness. He noticed it, for that brief second in   
which everything seemed so real and normal that he believed it had all been   
nothing more than a twisted nightmare conjured up by his mind. Overloaded by a   
night of too much junk food, and bad movies.  
  
It was a darkness produced merely by a lack of light, not by a lack of life.  
  
It was a real darkness that came from outside, not from inside of him.  
  
He was home.  
  
And then, just when he felt the corners of his lips about to rise in an   
involuntary smile... he felt it, hitting him like a pile-driver.  
  
First of all it was the notion that he was trapped, couched and silky walls   
surrounding him barely a few inches away from his body, and he felt panic engulf   
him as a wave of claustrophobia hit him full-force.  
  
But then, even that sensation was buried, overwhelmed by a more primal and deep   
feeling.  
  
It began in his fingertips like a crackling tickle and quickly extended all   
throughout his body, traveling through his nerves like a living, electrical   
pulse, setting them on fire.   
  
Making him close his eyes tightly shut, and his fists clench so tightly that his   
nails gouged into the skin of his palm, drawing his blood. Almost at the edge of   
his consciousness, he felt it wet and cold, as it was spilled and flowed between   
his fingers.  
  
His body arched up as the sensation engulfed his whole being into an electric   
current, and his upper jaw slid on his lower one, producing an unnerving and   
screeching sound.  
  
Then, on the trail of this, following the path opened up by the pain, came the   
thirst. His mouth dried and his throat suddenly ached, with a need that screamed   
to be alleviated inside his mind.  
  
He felt something stirring inside him. Something that was alive. Something that   
was hungry. Something that was clamoring to be fed.  
  
Hunger. It was pure, unadulterated hunger, need and wanting.  
  
His eyes opened, blazing red-gold in the darkness of his trap, and his nostrils   
flared with the smell of human flesh.  
  
They were close, so close...  
  
He could feel them. He could smell them. He could hear them.  
  
The hearts inside their chests, the blood running through their veins.  
  
His mind went into overload, covered by a blood-red veil and he was reduced to   
his simplest form, turned into a creature of physical need and desire.  
  
His rational thinking disappeared, and the only thing that remained as the fangs   
began to grow for the first time inside his mouth and the inhuman roar was born   
in his throat, was a beast that needed to be placated.  
  
The light inside him died.  
  
His soul cried out.  
  
His heart stopped beating.  
  
And then Xander Harris finally rose, turned into a creature of the night.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
As he saw the last of the assistants to the funeral going out of the small   
chapel, Oz followed him closely. And, after looking at Giles over his shoulder   
and receiving a nod of confirmation from the middle-aged librarian, he quickly   
closed the double wooden doors and locked them with the medieval-looking   
security bar.  
  
The young werewolf wondered if that was a wise move, it would surely stop anyone   
from entering the chapel – but it also would stop them from getting out in a   
hurry, if they needed to do so.  
  
Looking back at the rest of his friends gathered inside the small, almost   
familiar, chapel, seeing their faces and their expressions as they looked   
sideways at the coffin that had presided at the ceremony, he guessed that   
probably none of them would want to go anyway. Not even if things went   
completely to pot.  
  
As he walked back to them, he felt an odd sensation in his stomach. It wasn't   
fear, even when it would be a lie to say that he wasn't scared. It wasn't pain   
either, even when it would also be a lie to say that Xander's death hadn't made   
him feel sad and broken.  
  
It was something stranger, harder to define or explain.  
  
But it felt like a premonition.  
  
He didn't know how things were going to turn out this night. He couldn't say   
what was going to happen. But he was sure, deep in his heart and soul, that   
nothing was going to take place as they expected it to.  
  
He guessed that it was normal, if you lived on the Hellmouth.  
  
Sighing, the redheaded boy sat down in the same spot he had occupied during the   
funeral. In the second pew at the right of the hallway, formed by the two groups   
of wooden rows that filled the interior of the chapel, right behind Willow.  
  
Briefly, he took a moment to think back to the ceremony.  
  
Living in Sunnydale, he had attended more funerals than what he had liked or   
could even remember – but he wasn't able to recall a single one of them, where   
the ambience had been as cold and devoid of any real emotion as the one for   
Xander Harris.  
  
And it was surprising, if he thought about it – because Xander, or at least the   
Xander he had known, was a man of deep emotions, someone that had never really   
been good at hiding his inner self or his real feelings.  
  
If he was angry, you could feel it; if he was happy, you could feel it too.  
  
So, looking at the other side of the room where the members of his family were   
seated, watching their stone faces, he couldn't help but wonder how it was   
possible that the same blood of his friend ran through those people's veins.  
  
He hadn't been able to find any emotion on their faces or in their eyes. They   
didn't seem sad or angry at the injustice that was the death of such a young   
man. They were just there, attending the ceremony in their dark clothing,   
because that was what was expected of them.  
  
Even his own parents. Their eyes had been devoid of any life, like the ones of a   
pair of puppets.  
  
When Xander's mother had risen from her seat after the reverend's speech to   
place a single red rose over her son's coffin, Daniel Osborne had shivered at   
the lack of emotion on her face. It had been a mechanical gesture, robotic...   
false.  
  
Some people would have said that it was the pot calling the kettle black; that   
if there was anyone that shouldn't say anything about not having real emotions,   
it was him. But he knew the truth, and he didn't have to prove anything to   
anybody.  
  
It was one thing was to control your emotions – not to show them as he had grown   
accustomed to doing, since his father had abandoned his mother and himself when   
he was nothing more than just a kid – and quite another not to have them.  
  
And the people on the other side of the chapel, were definitely part of the   
latter category.  
  
They were the real corpses, and the ones who should have a funeral celebrated in   
their memory.  
  
So it had been his own side, that compact group of friends, who had the   
responsibility of mourning and grieving for the soul of Xander Harris. As well   
now the duty, of giving a final rest to his body.  
  
Because no one else had come to tell him goodbye.  
  
The members of his family could be counted on the fingers of two hands. Two   
parents, an aunt, an uncle and a pair of cousins... not enough people even to   
call it a family reunion.  
  
No one else. No fellow students from the school, no teachers, no neighbors, no   
friends – other than the ones who were now waiting for him to come back.  
  
Even the reverend's eulogy had been a standard one, pre-written with a blank   
space where the name of the deceased should be said, or where the words 'insert   
name here' were between a pair of parentheses.  
  
It would be laughable, if it wasn't so sad.  
  
There hadn't had tears on their side either, but just because all of them were   
beyond that phase – too accustomed by life to pushing their own feelings and   
necessities aside, and moving on to the matter at hand. Too grown-up for their   
own good.  
  
So after everybody else had gone out of the chapel, his blood family, the   
reverend, the people in charge of maintenance, they just waited there in   
silence; dressed in the same dark clothes they had worn to one-too-many   
funerals, their eyes low, their souls burdened.  
  
The three girls that had loved him the most were in the first pew. Cordelia,   
like the widow she'd never had the chance to become, sat in first place, the   
closest one to him.  
  
Buffy, the friend, the impossible dream, the one on whose shoulders rested the   
final duty, was next and beside her was Willow, the sister, the friend, the   
unrequited love.  
  
And behind them, the three men that cared about the women; the ones that, now   
that the white knight had been finally defeated, had to be the ones to cover and   
protect them, the ones that remained behind.  
  
Giles behind Cordelia. Angel behind Buffy. Oz himself behind Willow.  
  
Waiting for the moment to come. Expecting it with dread, wishing for it never to   
come, knowing that they wouldn't be spared from that horrible pain.  
  
And the time came. The moment arrived.  
  
And they went into its encounter, as they had done a hundred times before, and   
as they would have to do a thousand times afterwards.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
When the coffin began to tremble, the six of them rose from their seats and   
calmly walked to it. "You don't need to do this," the Slayer told them, "I'll   
take care of it."  
  
The brunette and the redhead looked at her with palpable sadness, and the blonde   
just nodded in acceptance. The time for confrontation had passed long ago.  
  
All those present there, the six of them, were friends. All of them were there   
for the same reason, and all of them would do what they had to do.  
  
The middle-aged man zipped open the bag that he carried under his arm, and all   
of them took something from its dark interior. The Slayer a stake, the   
cheerleader and the hacker a cross, the musician and the vampire vials of holy   
water and the librarian an ancient crossbow.  
  
"Be ready," he said to his younger companions, almost choking with the words,   
and they nodded. "And remember that it's not him. It's the thing that killed our   
friend."  
  
"We know that," the redheaded girl said, "but I don't think that it's going to   
make it easier for any of us."  
  
Then, without the need to utter any more words, they took their positions around   
the coffin, the girls in front, forming an open semicircle and the men behind   
them, covering and supporting them.  
  
The moment came, and the cards were finally laid on the table.  
  
The trembling of the wooden coffin grew until it turned into a furious shaking,   
as if something was moving inside it, struggling to get free. It bounced and   
jumped, and the red rose placed on its dark and polished surface slid down and   
fell to the floor almost in slow motion.  
  
Like an earthquake, the shakes of the coffin seemed to extend to the whole   
chamber, making their bones and their spirits tremble.  
  
Then the first unexpected thing happened.  
  
A thunderous roar, that would be expected more from a Tyrannosaurus Rex than   
from any other creature on the surface of the earth, came out of nowhere. It   
shook all of them, and even the huge stained glass of the tall windows.  
  
As it rebounded off the walls and filled their ears with its inhuman cry, a   
breeze also seemed to be born out of nowhere. It began blowing all around them,   
making their hair and clothes flap around as it also grew in force, quickly   
turning into a furious gale.  
  
"Giles! What's going on?!?" Willow exclaimed, trying to make herself heard over   
the roar of the unleashed wind.  
  
"I don't know!" the Watcher shouted back, protecting his eyes from the wind with   
his hand, his tie flowing and snapping over his shoulder like a whip. "I've   
never seen anything like this before!"  
  
"Or like that?" Oz asked him, tugging at the edge of his jacket to get his   
attention.  
  
"Like what?"  
  
"That!" the young werewolf insisted, pointing to the coffin.  
  
Giles had to make a real effort not to let his jaw fall to the floor, when he   
saw a thin web of small blue electric lightning bolts be born from the metallic   
handles of the coffin.  
  
They emerged from the thin crack between the casket and the cover, extending   
over its whole surface, crawling over it like small electric spiders.  
  
They grew in force and intensity, too. And before they could even assimilate   
what was going on, there were strong arcs of electricity jumping from the   
coffin, joining it to the ceiling and to every metallic surface that was near   
it.  
  
The wind turned into a hurricane and the wooden pews began to jump in their   
spots, some of them carried away by the force of the wind, being lifted by it   
and then falling over the rest.  
  
Willow screamed in panic when the unnatural tornado threw her to the floor and   
she began to be dragged away, sliding over the polished wooden surface. "Help!"   
she cried.  
  
Without thinking twice, Oz launched himself behind her and, sliding over the   
floor, grabbed her by her wrist, his other hand taking a safe grip on a near   
pew. "I gotcha!"  
  
"Don't let me go!!" Willow screamed, when she felt herself being lifted by the   
wind. Oz clenched his teeth, grunting with the effort, feeling himself about to   
be ripped in half, but neither his grasp on her, nor his one on the long seat   
weakened at all.  
  
Letting his game face show, Angel crawled to the red-haired couple, using his   
claws as anchors on the wood of the floor until he finally reached for them.  
  
"Grab a hold on me!" he shouted to the girl, who was now practically floating in   
the middle of the air.  
  
Grunting with the effort and the awkward maneuver, Willow was finally able to   
reach out for the dark-haired vampire and surrounded his neck with one of her   
arms at the same time that he did the same with her waist and with Oz's one,   
grounding both of them.  
  
Fortunately for the trio, it seemed that their combined weight was enough to   
protect them from the force of the wind.  
  
"We have to do something!" Cordelia told Giles. "We have to make this stop!"  
  
There was a portrait of Xander on a easel beside the coffin, showing him as he   
had been in life and not as the broken and tattered wreckage that they were   
going to bury.  
  
And when a blue lightning bolt hit it, the glass covering the picture exploded   
in a cloud of piercing small fragments and the paper exploded in flames, his   
handsome face filling first with white bubbles that erupted as it was consumed   
away.  
  
"Any suggestion would be deeply welcome!" the British man answered her.   
  
Above them, the bulbs of the electric lamps on the high ceiling began to explode   
one by one, letting a rain of bright sparks fall on them.  
  
It suddenly got darker and, as if on cue, the wind began to quickly lose   
strength until it finally died, the lightning bolts got weaker and weaker until   
they disappeared too.  
  
Finally, everything became semi-dark and silent, only broken by the ragged   
breaths of the group of friends.  
  
"And now?" Cordelia asked weakly.  
  
Biting her lower lip, tightening her grasp on her stake, Buffy walked to the   
coffin and, after taking a long and deep breath, closed her hand around the   
handle of the cover.  
  
And, immediately, removed it with a cry of pain. "God!!" she shouted, shaking   
her hand.  
  
"Does it burn?" Giles asked her with worry.  
  
"No!" Buffy shook her head. "It's frozen!"  
  
Swallowing a knot formed in her throat, Cordelia turned around from the Slayer   
and her Watcher when she heard a creak coming from the still coffin. She tried   
to call the rest of her friends, but the cold hand that seemed to take a grasp   
on her heart closed her throat too, stopping her from doing so.  
  
The cover rose two inches and then fell down with a loud thump, that sounded   
like a gunshot. Immediately, all their eyes settled on it.  
  
"Uh, Cordelia?" Buffy called her. "I think you should-"  
  
Her advice was cut short when the coffin exploded suddenly and unexpectedly, the   
lid propelled up like a rocket and flipping in the air like a coin until it   
noisily landed on the floor, breaking with the impact.  
  
Another moment of impossible quietness followed, as the gang's eyes were fixed   
to the spot.  
  
Then a hand with long and pale fingers and terminating in razor-sharp claws   
emerged from the interior of the coffin, taking hold of the edge of it and   
pushing up the rest of the attached body.  
  
Xander's torso appeared from the darkness of the interior, the head bent back as   
if he were in the grip of sexual ecstasy. His eyes closed and his mouth open, a   
silent breath coming out his lips.  
  
Growling like a big dangerous feline, he turned his head to them and they were   
able to see the planes and the ridges on his forehead, brow and upper cheeks,   
the long fangs bulging under his lips. And finally, when he opened his eyelids,   
the red-gold demonic eyes of a vampire looked at them with hunger.  
  
"Xander," Cordelia whispered, the word coming out of her lips like a painful   
exhalation.  
  
He just growled at her as he jumped out of the coffin, landing on his feet with   
a surprisingly smooth movement. There was no trace of any wounds on his face,   
there were no lacerations or cuts at all any longer.  
  
And, when he began to move towards them, his muscles moved like the pistons of a   
well-oiled machine under the black suit he had outfitted with for his funeral.  
  
=That isn't my Xander,= the cheerleader thought with an inner chill. =This...   
thing is an inhuman monster.= A perfectly adjusted machine of destruction.  
  
"Cordelia!" Buffy shouted to her. "The cross!!"  
  
Not even thinking about what she was doing, the brunette raised the wooden   
crucifix she was still holding with shaking hands, using it as a shield.  
  
For Xander – a confused, primal and disoriented Xander – it was as if he'd been   
hit with a 50,000-watt headlamp, at point-blank range.  
  
The mere presence of the sacred icon burnt his eyes and face and he had to look   
away, its flaming image carved with fire onto his corneas, and his own saliva   
turned into an acid foam inside his mouth.  
  
He backpedaled in pain, automatically raising a hand to protect himself from the   
effect of the cross and stumbled upon the coffin, throwing it to the floor and   
falling behind it.  
  
"Buffy!" Giles called to the Slayer. "Now!"  
  
Erasing all rational thought from her mind, not wanting to contemplate what she   
was doing, Buffy jumped forward and down. Falling to her knees and grabbing the   
vampire (she didn't, she couldn't call him Xander) by his neck, she raised her   
stake, ready to plunge it down with a killing strike.  
  
She felt the growl in his throat under the palm of her hand and clenched her   
teeth, a tear escaping from the corner of her eye. "Forgive me, Xander," the   
Slayer whispered as she brought the stake down.  
  
But, far from what she was expecting, her strike stopped when he captured her   
falling wrist in his hand, and Buffy struggled to get herself free from his   
iron-like grasp.  
  
"Damn it," she muttered in pain, "don't you make this any more difficult than it   
has to be..." The vampire just growled and bared his fangs at her, his hand   
painfully squeezing her wrist. "I need some help here!"  
  
Before anyone could move to help her, Xander hit her in the stomach and the   
Slayer grunted in pain, closing her eyes and grimacing at the sudden pain. He   
hit her again and then pushed her away from him with unexpected strength, even   
coming from a newborn, unleashed vampire.  
  
The Slayer flew a short distance and landed on her back, a yelp of pain and   
surprise escaping from her lips.  
  
"Buffy!!" Angel screamed, seeing the woman he loved more than his unlife falling   
down.  
  
With a growl of rage, allowing his human mask to vanish and his real, demonic   
face come out, the souled vampire abandoned his spot beside Willow and Oz. He   
then crossed the distance that separated him from his newly risen blood-brother,   
with five long and fast steps.  
  
Launching himself forward, Angel tackled Xander to the floor and both of them   
ended up in a pile of moving limbs amidst the remains of the coffin.  
  
Angel caught one of the broken pieces of wood from the coffin and, still   
fighting with Xander, prepared himself for the final strike.  
  
He didn't want to do it but, looking at it from a certain point of view, Angel   
supposed it would be best for everybody if he was the one to slay the vamp that   
Xander had become.  
  
At least this way, neither Buffy nor any other members of the Scooby Gang would   
have to blame themselves for Xander's final fate. And he was so accustomed to   
the pain and guilt, that the former Scourge of Europe thought that another brick   
in his wall wouldn't make too much difference now.  
  
But, much to his surprise, he never had a chance to fulfill his intentions.  
  
When Angel discharged the blow, the Xander vampire just blocked his strike with   
his forearm and punched him in the abdomen. Punched him with so much force that   
the souled vampire felt his feet abandoning the ground for a short moment, as   
the impact of the younger vamp's blow lifted him up a few inches.  
  
He was very strong.  
  
=Too strong.=  
  
And freakishly fast too, he noticed as Xander grabbed his wrist and twisted his   
arm painfully, making him lose the make-shift stake and kicked him in the gut.   
The older vampire folded up, feeling something breaking inside him and the taste   
of his own blood coming to his lips.  
  
With a roar, Xander grabbed Angel's elbow with his free hand and, using this   
point as a fulcrum, yanked at his wrist, breaking the older vampire's arm with a   
disgusting sound of splintering bones and twisting it into an impossible angle.  
  
Angel's scream of pain thundered in everyone's ears like an explosion.   
  
"Angel!!" Buffy shouted, regaining her feet and jumping back into the fight.  
  
Nevertheless, even before she could take the first step, Xander was moving   
again. Yanking at the souled vampire's broken arm, he spun around like a discus   
thrower, releasing Angel's large frame when he completed his first circle.  
  
And then, Angel was airborne.  
  
As if in slow motion, all those present looked in amazement as the dark-haired   
vampire flew in the air for more than 20 meters, describing a perfect parabola   
over their heads and finally crashing down like a meteorite between the   
now-scattered pews.  
  
Making them explode into a cloud of wooden splinters, and dragging them along as   
he slid and bounced on the floor until he finally stopped.  
  
For a second, no one even dared to breathe.  
  
Buffy just stared with wide eyes at the vamped figure of her deceased friend   
and, just for a heartbeat, she almost choked on her own saliva.  
  
She closed her eyes, and shook her head. What she'd seen in that short instant,   
couldn't have been real.  
  
It was as if Xander was in the middle of a kaleidoscope, a gamut of blood-red   
and black lights shining around him with blinding fury. Pure, raw energy coming   
out of every pore of his skin in vibrating waves, hitting her almost with a   
physical blow.  
  
Something like a buzz twisted painfully inside her stomach. She never had felt   
such darkness, such power before.  
  
And when he bared his fangs at her, she thought that she was looking at the face   
of Death itself.  
  
Then she heard Angel's moan of pain, blinked and the aura around the newly-risen   
vampire seemed to disappear as if it had never existed.  
  
=I'm having hallucinations,= the Slayer thought, biting her lower lip.  
  
"This has gone too far," Buffy finally mumbled between clenched teeth.   
Tightening her grip on her only stake, the blonde Slayer charged forward and,   
with a war cry that emerged from the deepest part of her belly, struck down with   
a deadly blow...  
  
...only to find an empty spot where Xander had been merely seconds before.   
  
"Oh my God," she heard Cordelia whispering as she tried to turn around to see   
what was going on. But Xander didn't seem to be anywhere around her.  
  
"Buffy, above you!!" Cordelia warned her.  
  
The Slayer only had half a second to look up and see a dark bulk falling on her   
and pushing her down, painfully smashing her against the ground. With a grunt,   
the air was choked out of her lungs as a pair of feet of crashed into her ribs,   
and she had to make an effort to stay conscious.  
  
Cordelia was sure she was immersed in the middle of some hideous nightmare,   
because what was happening couldn't be real.  
  
When Xander had shrugged Buffy away it had been horrible, because she had   
understood that it wasn't going to be as quick and clean as all of them wanted   
it to be.  
  
When he had defeated Angel as if the centuries-older vampire was nothing more   
than an amateur, it had been terrible because the fear had begun to replace the   
sadness inside her.  
  
But, when she had seen him jumping up into the air and, for just a mere second,   
float up there as if he was as weightless as a feather, she had just gone into   
mental overload. That was just not possible.  
  
But then he had landed on Buffy, taking her with her guard down. And after   
making her crash to the ground with the force of the impact, he was diving down,   
a clawed hand flying directly towards the fallen Slayer's throat.  
  
Then all the wonder had vanished into a puff of smoke, under the realization of   
what was going to happen.  
  
"No," the brunette whispered, unable to take her eyes away from the scene.  
  
Then, she caught a whisper of movement out of the corner of her eye and   
something passed a few inches from her face as a soft blow of air caressed it,   
making some loose strands of her dark hair dance idly and fall on her cheek.   
When she turned around, the arms of Giles' crossbow were still trembling after   
releasing their bolt into the air.  
  
The arrow struck Xander's shoulder, just a second before his claws ripped the   
tender flesh of Buffy's neck. And the force of the impact was enough to make him   
fall away from the Slayer, rolling on the floor as he brought a hand to the   
shaft protruding from his flesh, a roar like the one of a wounded animal coming   
out from his lips.  
  
"Cordelia!" Giles exclaimed while he fumbled with the ancient weapon, trying to   
reload it. "Help Buffy!"  
  
The brunette nodded sharply and quickly went to the aid of her blonde friend,   
helping her to her feet and, allowing her to lean on her taller frame, removed   
her from the fight.  
  
Buffy grunted in pain, holding her side as she was practically carried away in   
Cordelia's arms. "I think I may have a couple of broken ribs," she muttered, a   
thin trace of blood coming out of the corner of her lips.  
  
With a new roar, Xander ripped the arrow from his shoulder, a thin spray of   
blood coming out the wound when the metallic point shredded his flesh on its way   
out. Settling his menacing red-gold eyes on the lanky figure of the British   
Watcher, the vampire broke the thin wooden shaft in two with his strong grip.  
  
And, throwing the remains away, the vampire began to walk to him with decided   
steps, an animalistic growl escaping his lips.  
  
"Bloody hell," Giles murmured, seeing Xander coming in his direction while he   
still fumbled with the complicated mechanism of the crossbow. When he raised his   
eyes from it, the vampire was already just a couple of steps away from him.   
Giles gulped with nervousness.  
  
"Get away!!" Willow raggedly shouted, jumping into Xander's path at the last   
possible moment and raising her cross as a shield.  
  
"Willow!" Giles exclaimed in surprise, feeling the small redhead's back leaned   
on his chest.  
  
The Xander vampire recoiled in pain at the sight of the sacred icon and,   
covering his face with one arm, instinctively swung his other one around,   
hitting Willow with a blind slap that ripped the cross away from her grasp.  
  
"Willow!! No!!" Oz, who had been helping a fallen and almost unconscious Angel   
to his feet, shouted when he saw the large crucifix flying away from his   
girlfriend and sliding over the floor until it stopped at Cordelia's feet.  
  
Moving faster than what was humanly possible, Xander grabbed Willow by her neck;   
at the same time, he placed his hand flat on Giles' chest and pushed him away,   
sending the bewildered Watcher flying into the air for some meters until he   
landed painfully on the floor.  
  
"Xander," Willow grunted, his strong grip on her throat choking the air out of   
her lungs, "don't... do this..."  
  
But, when she felt him effortlessly lifting her body from the ground and looked   
down at his red-gold eyes, the hacker wasn't able to find any trace of her old   
friend there.  
  
Just a hungry demon.  
  
Time seemed to slow down, as he spun her into his deadly embrace. Holding her   
tightly against himself with her back to his chest, he ripped the collar and   
shoulder of her black blouse and jacket with his clawed hand. It exposed the   
soft and milky-white skin of her neck and shoulder, only covered now by the thin   
white strap of her bra.  
  
"Nooo!!!" Oz screamed, forgetting all about Angel and launching himself into a   
mad run towards them, his usually so calm and controlled face turned now into a   
twisted and flushed grimace.  
  
But he was too far away, and Xander was too fast.  
  
Oz saw Willow looking at him, her sea-green eyes clouded with fear until she   
closed them, waiting for what seemed her unavoidable fate.  
  
Xander's face sank down with a growl. And, as he held her on her feet, one arm   
around her waist and the other one turning her head away, exposing as much as   
possible to his mouth, his fangs finally pierced her skin and ripped her flesh   
as they sank into her shoulder.  
  
Oz's eyes filled with tears for the first time in many years as he saw her red   
blood beginning to flow from the wound, too much even for the vampire to swallow   
it, falling down her fair skin, drenching her clothes.  
  
Slow, he was too slow.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
Sweet. Coppery. Warm.  
  
Spicy. Metallic. Utterly delicious.  
  
Such was Xander's first taste of human blood.  
  
It flowed into his mouth like a fountain of life, inflaming his taste-buds like   
the richest ambrosia he'd ever had the luck to taste. It burned every inch of   
his flesh as it passed by, sliding down his throat and esophagus, filling his   
stomach like the most precious of liquors ever bottled by man or god.  
  
It was alive. It was on fire. It was pure energy and emotion, as he greedily   
drank it from its pulsating source with noisy and eager slurps.  
  
One gulp and, almost at the mere contact of the vital liquid with his tongue, he   
began to immediately feel the effects. The red veil began to vanish from his   
eyes, the cloud of thick fog that covered his brain began to dissipate and the   
first rational thoughts were able to begin circulating in his still-confused   
brain.  
  
Two gulps and the overwhelming hunger began to be placated. He was conscious of   
himself for the first time, of the coldness of the air around him; of the dim   
light of the street-lamps entering through the stained glass windows in colored   
rays, of the floor under his feet and the warmth of the body against his.  
  
Three gulps, and the first questions began to pop into his mind. =Where am I?   
How did I get here? What's going on? What's happened?=  
  
Still, the core of his attention was still focused on the sensations and   
feelings around his mouth, on that delicious taste, on that wonderful warmth   
where his lips were in contact with Willow's skin...  
  
=Willow?=  
  
His eyes opened wide, and almost popped out of their sockets. =Willow?=  
  
In front of him Oz was running to him with long, fast steps, his boyish face   
twisted into a grimace of rage and fear that made it almost unrecognizable.  
  
=Oz? Willow?=  
  
He never got the chance to take his fourth gulp as, sudden and unexpectedly,   
some movement out of the corner of his eye took his attention away from the   
upcoming young werewolf and a dark bulk seemed flood into his peripheral vision,   
covering it.  
  
His fangs abandoned Willow's flesh, and his brow arched in confusion. =What   
the...=  
  
The impact of something hard against his face cut off his train of thought, and   
sent him away from the red-haired hacker and to the ground, as his head twisted   
almost comically to one side with a violent spin.  
  
"Get away from her!!" Cordelia shouted to him, swinging her large cross over her   
shoulder, getting ready for a second hit.  
  
As he rolled onto the floor, dodging the brunette's strike, Oz arrived in time   
to catch an almost-faint Willow before her body actually hit the hard surface of   
the floor.  
  
Enveloping her into his arms, the young werewolf let himself fall down, allowing   
his girlfriend to lie in his protective embrace as he tried to stop the flow of   
blood from the wound on her shoulder, with his bare hands.  
  
"Cordy, what-?" Xander tried to ask as he dodged the brunette's strikes as well   
as he could, which was surprisingly difficult as Cordelia was attacking him with   
the fierce rage of a panther, wildly swinging around the large cross like a   
makeshift mace.  
  
He was totally confused. He didn't know what was going on.  
  
But he knew that something was terribly wrong with this picture.  
  
"Cordelia, ungh!" he grunted when his girlfriend finally succeeded and hit him   
in the shoulder, the heavy cross hitting him like a bolt of lightning, making   
him fall to his knees.  
  
With an inarticulate cry, her hazel eyes clouded by tears and sorrow, Cordelia   
hit his fallen form again and again, refusing to think on what she was doing,   
telling herself that the monster at her feet wasn't the boy she had loved –   
still loved.  
  
She clenched her teeth not to scream, pressing her lips tightly shut not to cry.  
  
One, two, three, four times... Xander felt the cross falling on him like a   
sledgehammer, smashing him, burning his skin with each contact. Until the pain   
was so intense that it clouded his mind again and he rose up with a roar, his   
eyes blazing in golden fury.  
  
He pushed Cordelia away with a blind backhand slap, that ripped the cross away   
from her hands and made her fall down flat on her behind.  
  
He growled at her.  
  
And saw fear in her precious eyes.  
  
Xander felt something piercing him right then, like a burning physical pain,   
like the scream of a thousand voices right in his ear.  
  
He raised his gaze from her, and looked around. And all around him, everything   
was in complete chaos.  
  
The small chapel seemed to have been hit by a tornado. There didn't seem to be   
one single pew still standing upright, and most of them were broken and   
splintered as if a mad lumberjack had gotten very angry with them.  
  
The tapestries that had covered the walls had been ripped off and thrown around,   
fallen like forgotten blankets in an old woman's loft.  
  
There were flowers at the end of the chapel, near a broken coffin and the   
reverend's tiny pulpit. Red roses were scattered on the floor, stomped on and   
smashed.   
  
=What's going on?=  
  
Buffy was near them, she was looking at him with eyes as wide as saucers,   
holding her side as if in pain. She was looking at him. There was a thin thread   
of blood coming out the corner of her mouth. She was scared.  
  
Giles wasn't far from her. The middle-aged man was surprisingly helping a very   
pale Angel to his feet, holding him by his waist as the vampire surrounded his   
shoulders with one of his arms, his other one hanging limp and useless by his   
body.  
  
They were looking at him. They were scared too.  
  
Willow was on the floor, in Oz's lap. The red-haired girl was beyond pale, her   
eyes clouded and almost at the edge of unconsciousness, held up only by her   
boyfriend's arms while he tried to stop the flow of blood from a horrible wound   
on her shoulder. They were scared.  
  
The blood... the blood was red, standing out against her milky white skin,   
drenching her clothes. The blood was beautiful and offensive at the same time,   
it called him and repulsed him. He felt thirst, loathing, hunger, nausea and   
sexual excitement, all at the same time.  
  
He looked down at his hands.  
  
They were covered in blood.  
  
Willow's blood.  
  
He felt suddenly cold and dirty.  
  
"No..." he whispered, rubbing his hands, trying to free himself from the warm,   
sticky sensation of the vital fluid on his skin. He rubbed them together with   
frantic energy, until his skin was reddened and raw and his claws began to draw   
his own blood.  
  
Claws. He had claws.  
  
=But human beings don't have claws.=  
  
"No..." he repeated, trying to deny what was becoming painfully evident with   
each passing second. As a wave of panic hit him painfully in the gut, he brought   
his hands to his face, caressing it with his fingertips.  
  
Finding the planes, noticing the ridges, touching the fangs.  
  
"No..." he cried with a sob, as the word, so obscene to his mind that he wasn't   
able to voice it, made its up way through the various layers of his brain.  
  
=Vampire.=  
  
He was a vampire.  
  
And then the recent past hit him, with all the force of a hurricane.  
  
Faith. The cargo bay. The cross, the spikes and the pain. The blood.  
  
His blood.  
  
Her blood.   
  
Xander closed his eyes, holding his stomach as a wave of nausea made him bend   
over. He remembered. Every second of it. Each moment of pain, every damned   
instant of Hell.  
  
"Nooooo!!!!!" he screamed, falling to his knees and raising his face to the tall   
ceiling, his cry thundering inside the chapel, shaking the tall stained glass   
windows.  
  
And then he just crumbled, hiding his face between his hands, shedding blood-red   
tears, dying a little bit more with each passing second.  
  
Until Cordelia called his name. "Xander?"  
  
He raised his eyes, wet with tears, to her and found his loved one still on the   
floor, merely a couple of steps away from him. And she was... she looked like   
total crap.  
  
Her face was pale, and crossed by the unmistakable traces of dried tears; her   
eyes were reddened and her hair and clothes were a mess, as if she had just been   
standing in the middle of a wild storm.  
  
She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.  
  
"Xander?" she called him again.  
  
And the newborn knew then that everything had ended for him. He couldn't be   
here. Not after what had happened, not after what he had done, not after what he   
had become.  
  
A vampire.  
  
A demon.  
  
He couldn't look at her face anymore. He couldn't look at those beautiful eyes,   
and see the fear and the loathing. He couldn't live like that.  
  
So, he just stood up and began to walk backwards away from her, with short and   
doubtful steps at first. Away from all of them. Seeing their eyes fixed on him.   
He was a monster. He was the enemy. They had to kill him.  
  
"Xander!!" Cordelia insisted, regaining her feet.  
  
Closing his eyes, he turned around and began to move along the main aisle,   
increasing his speed with each step he took away from her.  
  
"He's trying to escape!!" Giles shouted, making Cordelia turn around to look at   
him. "We can't let that happen!"  
  
Looking around her, Cordelia spotted the Watcher's crossbow on the floor, just a   
few inches from her and quickly knelt down, retrieving it. She turned to look at   
Xander and found that he was already far away, running like mad towards one of   
the tall stained glass windows.  
  
She raised the crossbow, feeling its grip oddly familiar in her hands, and   
shouldered it, the movement natural, easy in her grasp, as if she had been born   
bearing one. She aimed at Xander's back, her finger caressing the trigger.  
  
There was a thick silence, as she felt the stares of all her friends fixed on   
her. She had to do it; it was not only her right, but her duty. Not Buffy's, and   
not Willow's.  
  
She was the one who had loved him the most, no matter what any of them thought.   
He was her one true love, and Cordy felt she had to give him peace and rest.  
  
Xander was almost fifteen meters from the window when his feet abandoned the   
floor and, like some kind of big, black bat, he jumped smoothly into the air,   
flying towards the glass.  
  
Cordelia blinked repeatedly, trying to free her eyes from the burning mist of   
her tears. Tightening her finger on the trigger of the crossbow, she pronounced   
for the first time the words that had ached to come out from the depths of her   
soul for months.  
  
"I love you, Xander," she whispered, closing her eyes as she pulled the trigger.   
  
The arrow flew out, abandoning the crossbow and crossing the space with a swift   
whisper of stabbed air.  
  
Xander moaned in pain when the bolt hit him right at the apogee of his flight,   
entering through his back, its wooden point piercing his flesh. It punctured his   
lung and finally appeared out from his chest, a thin and rain-like spray of   
blood splattering the stained glass barely inches away from his body.  
  
For an endless moment time stopped and he remained there, suspended in the   
middle of the air, his arms spread wide like the wings of a defeated angel. His   
eyes closed and his demonic face filled with a expression of peace that softened   
it, making it look almost human.  
  
Xander let out a long, painful breath.  
  
Cordelia had missed his heart, only by a fraction of an inch.  
  
And then he crashed through the glass, the impact of his body against it making   
the tall window explode into a myriad of shining jewels that floated around him,   
like a bright rainbow.  
  
He fell into the darkness of the night.  
  
Letting the crossbow fall, practically throwing it away, Cordelia ran behind   
him, calling his name at the top of her lungs. "Xander! Xander!!" She reached   
the frame of the broken window and looked outside, her breath cut short on her   
lips.  
  
Outside, the night was quiet, silent; one could even say... dead.  
  
"Xander!!" she cried, calling him.  
  
But the night didn't answer her.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
All Xander knew for a long time was that he was running, escaping, flying over   
the asphalt so fast that his feet almost didn't touch it. Everything around him   
was nothing more than a blur of movement, passing by the corner of his eyes.  
  
Nothing was real. Everything was an illusion of his fevered mind, but the   
pounding of his heart inside his chest and the breath coming out of his lungs in   
short, quick exhalations of air.  
  
He lost all awareness of time and space, he just ran without knowing where he   
was going. Just wanting to distance himself from them, from his past, from his   
love, from his family and friends, from everything he had held dear. Running   
away from himself.  
  
Time passed. He didn't know how much, he couldn't estimate it because the night   
around him was so silent and quiet, that it seemed that the world had stopped   
its endless turning.  
  
The newly-risen vampire ran for miles. He ran for ages.  
  
His legs finally failed him at some point and he fell to the cold hard ground,   
suddenly too tired even to let out a grunt of pain when he rolled over it, its   
rough surface scratching the palms of his hands and his face.  
  
After a brief moment, Xander remained still and quiet, silently breathing, lying   
in the middle of the road with his eyes lost in the starry night sky, feeling   
like the only living thing in the world.  
  
The last lonely boy.  
  
But he wasn't alive, and he wasn't even a boy anymore.  
  
He was a vampire. He was a demon, a creature of darkness and death.  
  
He was also cold.  
  
Getting up from the hard asphalt, Xander stood up to his full height, shuddering   
with that strange feeling, a coldness that seemed to come from inside himself,   
engulfing him into a frozen and paralyzing embrace.  
  
He crossed his arms over his chest, tightening the jacket of his black suit   
around him, trying to regain some warmth – but to no avail.  
  
He looked around, trying to place himself. He was practically exhausted, too   
tired even to think. Warehouses, tens of them left and right, rusty and dirty.   
Abandoned buildings, empty and condemned, some of them even semi-collapsed.  
  
Skid row, the worst part of Sunnydale – where only the homeless, the vagrants,   
the drug addicts and their dealers dared to tread. Not even the vampires came   
here, too full of themselves to be humiliated on feeding from the scum of   
humankind.  
  
Xander almost burst out in laughter. Now he could be their master. Xander   
Harris, King of the Trash.  
  
He walked to the nearest building, feeling himself weaker and weaker with each   
step he took towards it. He needed some secluded place to crash, somewhere to   
get a few hours of rest, to gather his strength and think on what to do.  
  
Xander found the main door of the building closed, a thick panel of wood nailed   
to the frame and a sign glued to it, warning that the building was condemned and   
that it would be unsafe and dangerous to go into it.  
  
Amused, Xander noticed that there were few street lamps intact around the place   
– none, in fact – and that if not for his new vampire eyes, he wouldn't have   
been able to read the sign.  
  
Who cared?  
  
Grabbing the wooden panel, Xander yanked at it, easily ripping it from the frame   
and then throwing it effortlessly aside, entering the building.  
  
The interior of the building was dark, but he was able to see inside it as if it   
was noon on a clear day. Not that there was anything really interesting to see   
inside, apart from tons of sticky trash and dusty debris that smelled of urine   
and rotten filth.  
  
He didn't want to think on who had spent the night there before him, or on what   
they had done there; he just searched for a secluded spot, finally finding one   
under a staircase and, letting himself fall into it, he tried to find a   
comfortable position to rest.  
  
That was when he understood that the thing that was stopping him from finding   
said rest, was the arrow still sticking out from his chest.  
  
Frowning, Xander grabbed the shaft right behind its entry point and yanked   
tentatively and softly at it. He clenched his teeth, swallowing down a scream of   
pain.  
  
It hurt like hell.  
  
Reaching awkwardly over his shoulder, he patted his back until found the place   
where it was embedded in his flesh and grabbed the shaft, breaking it with a   
loud snap of splintered wood.  
  
Breathing heavily, Xander took the arrow once again from where it appeared in   
his chest and, clenching his teeth, he gave it a good yank, ripping it from his   
body. He grunted in pain and finally screamed when it finally came out   
completely, followed closely by a thin spray of blood.  
  
Xander breathed heavily, practically choking on his saliva and, feeling   
lightheaded, rolled into a ball, allowing the darkness to claim him.  
  
He wished not to have to wake up again.  
  
The young vamp just wanted a little rest, but he didn't have even that much   
luck.  
  
The nightmares claimed him for endless hours, mixing memories and unreal   
fantasies alike. Disturbing dreams of death, sex and blood, of a demon reveling   
in the bloodlust and the joy of the carnage it caused, of himself doing evils   
that were beyond what his twisted imagination could have previously conjured up.  
  
And Faith's voice superimposed on all of them. Her laughter, her whispering, her   
crying. Obscure, obscene, repulsing, exciting, attracting...  
  
"Come with me.  
Be mine.  
We'll be one.  
We'll be the same.  
Come with me."  
  
His eyes opened and a scream of fear died on his lips, coming out in an   
agonizing exhalation of breath. He felt lightheaded, his stomach rumbling in   
pain, his whole body shaken by an unsettling sensation of nausea that just   
wouldn't go away.  
  
Crawling on his hands and knees, Xander came out of his little nook under the   
staircase and, finding a secluded corner, vomited out violently the contents of   
his stomach.  
  
Grunting and heaving, Xander spat the awful taste away and closed his eyes,   
leaning his forehead on the rough surface of the wall, slowly breathing while   
his body was still shaken by soft waves of nausea.  
  
"Hey man, something bad fall on you?" asked a rough voice not far away from his   
back, closely followed by a seemingly-endless series of coughs.  
  
Xander turned around in surprise and his golden eyes bored into the semidarkness   
of the interior of the building like a pair of daggers, almost immediately   
finding the source of those words.  
  
A man, sitting down on the floor and with his back leaning against the wall;   
covered by dirty and torn rags, his skin and long beard dirty with mud and soot   
that made his age impossible to calculate. A vagrant, a homeless person.  
  
"Hey man," he repeated when he finally was able to subdue his coughing, offering   
him a bottle hidden inside a dirty brown paper bag, "take a sip, and erase the   
taste."  
  
Frowning, wondering what he was doing, Xander walked, or actually stumbled, to   
him and took the offered bottle from his hand, taking a long and greedy gulp   
from it.  
  
It was awful and it burned his throat as it went down, making him cough and   
heave like mad.  
  
"What the hell is this stuff?" he asked with a rough voice, cleaning his lips   
with the back of his hand while he returned the bottle to the man.  
  
"Homemade plum liquor," the guy said with a smile, that was almost hidden by his   
white-gray moustache and beard. "Strong but good, huh? I learnt how to do it in   
old Folsom, we didn't have many good vaults there," he commented, laughing as if   
it was a private joke. "What's your story? What happened to your face?"  
  
Looking away from him, leaning on the wall for support, Xander passed his hands   
over his face slowly, letting his fingertips trail the edged paths of his   
forehead, nose and cheeks. Game face. Vampire. Demon. Monster.  
  
"Are you sick or something?" the vagrant asked him, suddenly worried. "You don't   
have anything contagious, do you? I'm a healthy guy and I don't want to get-" he   
was cut off by a new round of rough coughs and, for a second, it seemed that he   
was going to spit out his lungs.  
  
Xander chuckled, on behalf of the situation. "Yeah," he whispered, finding his   
own voice so rough and deep that it was unrecognizable even to himself,   
"terminally ill."  
  
"Then get away, man," the vagrant grunted, "I don't wanna get anything dirty   
from you."  
  
Xander looked down at the man through half-closed eyes. =Too late to worry,   
dude,= he thought, =you already got it.= He couldn't say how he knew it, but he   
knew it.   
  
The life was escaping out from that man's hands, falling like sand between his   
fingers in front of his own eyes. He could see him dying right there, he could   
taste it on his tongue, smell the blackness of his lungs in his nose.  
  
Lung cancer, quickly stealing the life away from him. How much time was there   
remaining for this man? How much time until he finally collapsed, coughing and   
spitting up blood? Months? Weeks? Days?  
  
Who would care if he fed on him right now?  
  
The thought had wormed its way into Xander's mind without warning, shaking him   
to the core, and now it refused to go away.  
  
Who would care, indeed?  
  
=If I took him, ripping the tender flesh of his neck with my fangs, if I drank   
his blood, swallowing as it entered my mouth, if I killed him, who would notice   
his absence? He's going to die anyway, he doesn't matter to anybody, he...=  
  
"Stop!!" Xander cried, pressing his temples with the heels of his hands and   
falling to his knees. "Get outta my mind!!"  
  
"Hey, you alright?"  
  
Xander rocked on his knees back and forth, and clenched his teeth tightly   
closed. His fangs ripped open his lower lip as the beat of his pulse thundered   
in his temples under his hands, threatening to making his head explode.  
  
The recently-turned vampire managed to slowly rise to his feet, and stumbled   
clumsily away from that sweet temptation – the roar of the man's blood as it ran   
through his veins was in Xander's sharp ears, as well as the pumping of his   
heart inside his chest.  
  
He needed to get away from him. He needed to... he needed to...  
  
"Where are you going, man?" the vagrant asked him, not wanting to lose his   
company so soon. "Was it something I said? Come on, come back and have a drink!"  
  
For a brief moment, Xander looked at him over his shoulder. Then he briefly   
closed his eyes, and searched for the nearest exit.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
As he walked through the empty and dirty streets of Skid row, Xander tried to   
figure out what it was that was happening to him.  
  
He was a vampire, that was pretty obvious.  
  
But... it also felt like that he was still himself.  
  
Had his friends restored his soul? Was he now condemned to walk the earth for an   
eternity of unhappiness?  
  
But if they had done that, why had they tried to kill him?  
  
Because Xander remembered it clearly now. Cordelia raising the cross to him as   
he came out of his casket, Buffy trying to stake him before he even knew what   
was happening...  
  
They had tried to kill him immediately. They hadn't given him a chance.  
  
He tried to fight the bitterness that flowed into his heart at that idea, but he   
wasn't able to. For months they had struggled and suffered, as that monster   
Angelus had turned their lives into a living hell.  
  
Until finally, even when the whole world had been at stake, they had risked   
everything to return his soul to him.  
  
But what about himself?  
  
With him, it had just been 'Hello Xander, dust Xander, goodbye Xander'.  
  
They hadn't given him a chance.  
  
Arriving at an abandoned and ruined park, the playground looked deserted to him.   
The swings were rocking slowly with their seats hanging from the rusty chains,   
the carousel and the jungle gym covered by dirty and obscene graffiti, so Xander   
let himself fall onto one of the few benches that remained intact.  
  
He felt his shirt cracking with dried blood, sticky and glued to his chest.   
Leaning backwards on the back of the bench, Xander let his head fall back and   
closed his eyes to the night sky, which was slowly turning gray as the dawn   
approached.  
  
Suddenly he felt it, the sun was going to come out soon.  
  
He should get up, and search for a safe place to spend the day. He should run   
away from the daylight.  
  
But he was so comfortable here, with his eyes closed and feeling the soft breeze   
caressing his face and hair, not thinking, not remembering at all...  
  
Xander understood then, that he wasn't going anywhere. He was going to stay   
right there, and just wait for the sun to come up. He would salute it one last   
time, and then he would die.  
  
That would be best for everybody.  
  
Would it hurt?  
  
He hoped that it wouldn't hurt too much, that it would be quick and merciful.  
  
Did vampires contemplate suicide? Did he really want to die?  
  
=Wake up and smell the coffee, Xandman!= he told himself. =You're already dead.=  
  
But if that was true, how was it that he was still breathing? How was it that he   
was able to feel his heart beating inside his chest? How was it that he was   
still himself?  
  
Xander passed a tired hand over his face, rubbing his eyes with a sigh. He   
figured that the question wasn't really that, the real question that needed an   
actual answer was whether he wanted to keep on... 'living' like this.  
  
Did he want to walk in an eternal night? Did he want to drink blood, so he could   
maintain this... existence?  
  
A few minutes ago, he'd had the chance to take a human life. Instinctively, he   
knew that it would have been as easy as stealing candy from a baby, and probably   
even with fewer consequences.  
  
But still, he had refused to do it... even when he had almost been able to feel   
the now-sweet taste of the man's blood in his mouth.  
  
Why? Was there still some hope for him? A cure for him? If so, maybe Giles could   
find-  
  
=No.= The mere mention of the British Watcher's name inside his mind filled him   
with a mixture of sensations, that shook his whole being to its innermost core.   
He felt the bitterness of betrayal, the fear of rejection, the hope of   
acceptance.  
  
Xander felt love and hate together in a ball the size of a fist that installed   
itself into his belly, and refused to go away.  
  
They were his friends. They were his family. They had tried to kill him.  
  
He couldn't live with that idea in his mind.  
  
Giles. Oz. Angel. Willow. Buffy. Cordelia.  
  
They had tried to kill him.  
  
He'd loved them. He would've done anything in the world for them. He had died   
for them, for crying out loud.  
  
They had tried to kill him.  
  
GilesOzAngelWillowBuffyCordelia...  
  
Xander opened his eyes when the sting of tears was so intense, that he thought   
that they were burning him, stewing him in his own juices.  
  
And then the first solar rays hit him squarely in the face as the day began to   
dawn, the sun peeking out far away from behind the buildings in front of him.  
  
He blinked in surprise, a little blinded by it. It was warm and nice, in spite   
of its weakness during these days of February. And it didn't hurt him at all.  
  
Xander waited in silence for long minutes, his game face turned into a stoic,   
frozen mask, looking at the daytime star rising up and banishing the darkness of   
the night.  
  
The blanket of light then slowly covered the town of Sunnydale, until the gray   
sky turned blue and everything around him gained the sudden and wonderful colors   
of life.  
  
"Great," he said out loud after some moments, even when there was nobody else   
around him to hear the words. "What else can happen?"  
  
~~~~~~  
  
Using those first hours of the morning as a shield, walking through the most   
secluded and empty streets he could find, jumping over walls and crossing   
abandoned backyards, Xander made his way from Skid row back to his house.  
  
He surprised himself at learning how close both places were in space, and yet   
how far away those worlds were from each other.  
  
Even when it couldn't be said that his family was a rich one (it was difficult   
when your father was a drunken moron and your mother was missing in action half   
the time), they still had that house that they had inherited from his   
grandmother. And a little amount of money, that had allowed them an easy   
existence.  
  
He'd often wondered how much worse his life would have been, if his parents had   
had to work for a living.  
  
Anyway, Xander finally made it home and jumped the fence that surrounded his   
house with an smoothness that felt both surprising and natural for him. He   
crossed the backyard, kneeling down and breaking the glass of the basement   
window with his elbow.  
  
Rolling and grunting with the effort of making his body pass through the narrow   
space, he managed to jump into the basement, his heightened senses allowing him   
to move in the semidarkness with sure and easy steps.  
  
Suddenly he wondered, =How is it I could get in here?= No one had invited him   
in.  
  
There was only one explanation – no one considered this house their home, not   
even his mother and father.  
  
Xander couldn't help but grimace when he remembered that barely days before, he   
had been thinking on moving from his room into this same basement, to gain some   
privacy and independence from his parents.  
  
Now, it seemed that a whole lifetime had passed since then. His lifetime.  
  
As he walked up the stairs and opened the door to the kitchen as silently as he   
could, Xander noticed that he was alone in the house. He could smell the absence   
of human life inside the building, as if it was a physical sensation.  
  
Where would his parents be? If he knew them, they would probably be throwing a   
party in some tacky bar, celebrating that they had gotten rid of the loser son   
at last.  
  
=Well, Mom and Dad, you know what? I'm baaack!=  
  
Shaking his head, thinking on the faces they would exhibit if they found him   
nonchalantly sitting in the living room, zapping channels and sipping from a   
soda with his game face on, the huge red stain still on his shirt, he walked up   
the stairs and to his room.  
  
=They'd probably just think that it was a side effect of the delirium tremors,=   
Xander concluded with dry humor.  
  
Sighing, he took a quick look around himself. He had made a decision, and he was   
resolved to stick to it.  
  
Xander needed time to think, and to understand what was happening to him. He   
needed space and some peace of mind, and he knew he wasn't going to get anything   
of the sort if he stayed here in Sunnydale.  
  
There were simply too many complications.  
  
Because, even when it felt bitter and angry inside him, the young fledgling   
still wanted to find the Scooby Gang. He wanted to go see Buffy and Willow and   
spend the night, watching hideous Indian movies on TV and laughing all night   
with them.  
  
He wanted to do research with Giles, and see Oz's band playing at the Bronze.   
  
God, he even wanted to see Angel and make bad puns at him, until he managed to   
make the souled vampire's face turn red.  
  
And above all, he wanted to be with Cordelia, to take her in his arms and kiss   
her like there was no tomorrow.  
  
Xander caressed his chest, his fingers tracing the contours of the red stain on   
the fabric of his shirt. She had shot him with that damned crossbow.  
  
Xander opened his closet and took a large sports bag, quickly stuffing clothes   
inside it, some jeans, some underwear, a pair of sweaters...  
  
It hit him right then that he couldn't go anywhere, looking like a nasty corpse   
that had just crawled out of its grave. So, leaving his bag on the bed and not   
wanting to follow the trail of that last idea, he practically ripped off his   
dirty clothes as he walked into the bathroom, switching on the light.  
  
"Oh, God!!" Xander exclaimed when as he stepped into the bathroom, he found   
himself face to face with a demon.  
  
His surprise was so great and he felt himself so paralyzed by the fear and   
loathing, that he needed a whole minute to understand that it was his own face,   
which was looking back at him in the mirror.  
  
Frowning and tilting his head to one side, Xander took a dubious step towards   
the polished mirror. He let the fingers of his right hand trail over its cold   
surface, as he traced in amazement the contours of his own face with his left   
one.  
  
"Vampires don't cast a reflection in the mirror," he whispered raggedly, a knot   
forming in his throat while he lifted his upper lip and examined his elongated   
and sharp canines.  
  
Sighing almost in pain, Xander leaned his forehead onto the mirror and closed   
his eyes for a brief moment, taking deep and long breaths.  
  
"C'mon, Xander!" he said out loud, trying to convince himself. "You can do   
this."  
  
Taking a step back from his own reflection, the young Mr. Harris looked at the   
golden eyes of the demon, and taking a long breath, swallowed down the thick   
knot in his throat.  
  
He had no idea how to do this, so he just decided to calm down and think of nice   
things like Twinkies, Shania Twain's legs and Cordelia's kisses...  
  
And then, as his mind began to wander off, the vampire tried to make his face   
turn human.  
  
Nothing happened.  
  
"Come on," he grunted, closing his eyes and grimacing with effort. "Just   
change!"  
  
After five long minutes of groaning and grunting, as if he was trying to do a   
very different activity associated with that same room, Xander abandoned the   
attempt with a long sigh.  
  
He let himself fall back against the cold china wall, banging his head softly   
against it and feeling completely stupid.  
  
=It can't be that complicated,= Xander thought. He had seen Angel and other   
vampires do it a thousand times, as if they weren't even thinking about it – so   
it couldn't be all that complicated.  
  
=Maybe that's it,= he told himself, taking hold of the sink and looking at   
himself. =It's just a muscle, right? Like raising an arm, or taking a step. You   
don't think 'I have to raise my arm' or 'I have to raise my foot, move it   
forward and then lower it to the floor', you just do it.=  
  
So, Xander closed his eyes and, arching his brow, thought of his own face   
changing. Not the complicated mechanisms of the muscles, the bones and the   
cartilage rearranging, the mystical complexities of it all.  
  
He just wanted it and, when he opened his eyes, he couldn't help but smile.   
  
He was looking back at himself with brown eyes, the ridges had smoothed out and   
his eyebrows had appeared again.  
  
"Oh man," he said caressing them, "you don't know how much I've missed you   
guys."  
  
Well, there was no one better than he in taking pride of the small triumphs.  
  
Barely half an hour later, after taking a hot and relaxing shower and cleaning   
all traces of blood and dirt from his body, Xander went back to his room. Naked   
and wet as the day he was born, he finished getting his stuff ready.  
  
There was something changing inside him and he could feel it, a sensation so   
alien to him that he needed some moments to recognize it. Xander was steeling   
himself, weaving an armor of coldness around his heart not to think, not to   
remember, not to feel.  
  
He'd begun to think in terms of just the immediate future, not of tomorrow but   
the next five minutes. And above all, not of the past, never the past. Yesterday   
just didn't exist to him anymore.  
  
His soul, if he still had it, had turned numb. His heart had turned cold.  
  
Abandoning his task for a brief moment, Xander took a long and slow look at his   
naked body. Examining it in the golden light of the morning, filtered through   
his window, the word 'creature' popped up in his mind.  
  
He was different. He was no frightened boy anymore. He was no longer human.  
  
He was a vampire.  
  
Different. Strange. Special.  
  
But a vampire, nonetheless.   
  
Shaking his head, Xander grabbed a pair of boxers from his drawer and slipped   
into them, followed by a pair of jeans, a T-shirt and a sweater. He completed   
his attire with socks and a pair of sneakers and zipped his bag shut, throwing a   
jacket over his shoulders.  
  
Then, kneeling down in front of his closet, he removed the little board that   
covered his vault of treasures, as he called it, and took the small box inside   
it, opening it.  
  
Xander wasted no time in taking the small bundle of dollars he kept there, the   
remains of his savings after spending the rest on an expensive bottle of perfume   
for Cordelia.  
  
One that now, he wouldn't ever have the chance to give to her. He quickly put   
the cash into the interior pocket of his jacket.  
  
Xander knew he had an account in the local bank with a little bit of money his   
grandmother had left for his university studies, but he found it hard to believe   
that he would now have access to it.  
  
Somehow, being officially dead was bad for one's economic situation.  
  
Xander played with the thought of searching for some more money in his parents'   
room, but the idea was plainly laughable. The mere concept of Alexander Harris   
Senior saving cash for a rainy day, went against everything he knew about his   
father.  
  
No, he would have to manage with what he had.  
  
For some silent seconds he pondered his next move and then, opening the box   
again, he rummaged through its contents, the pictures, the objects, the   
mementos... he didn't want to remember the past, but he didn't want to forget it   
either.  
  
If he lost his hope, there would nothing of Xander Harris remaining inside him;   
and then, it would indeed be better for him to be dead completely.  
  
He took a small package, carefully wrapped up in colorful gift paper and   
examined it closely before putting it in his pocket and taking a picture from   
the box.  
  
The gang at Christmas, laughing, sharing that special time together.  
  
It hurt now to look at their faces, to see their smiles. They made him want to   
cry, and he was tired of crying.  
  
So, keeping the picture carefully guarded inside his pocket, Xander put the   
wooden box back inside its secluded nook. After covering it, he took his sports   
bag and the plastic one where he had gathered his dirty and torn clothes and   
quickly went out of his house, not looking back as he ran away down the long and   
empty street.  
  
His relaxed jog took him faster than what he expected back across Skid row and   
to the railway intersection near it, a place that all the freight trains   
arriving at, leaving or just passing by Sunnydale had to use.  
  
Xander sat down beside the railway on a flat stone, his back leaned against a   
sign. He waited, his eyes closed and the sun warming his body as he tried not to   
think of anything at all.  
  
He didn't have to wait for long as he heard the whistle of a freight train, and   
the ground began to rumble under his feet as the enormous bulk of the train   
became bigger and bigger on the horizon.  
  
Jumping to his feet, Xander threw his bag over his shoulder and waited for the   
train to come close enough, hoping that it would slow its speed as it crossed   
the intersection with the road.  
  
The bells began to clang and the barriers were lowered, even though there was no   
car coming on the road. Xander began to run in the same direction as the train   
as it got closer and closer to him, discovering with amazement that he was   
almost able to match the machine's speed with little effort.  
  
When the first cargo truck with an open door reached him, he jumped into it,   
getting a good grip on the door's handle and propelling himself inside.  
  
When he turned around on the floor and sat up, he found that he wasn't even   
panting.  
  
Shaking his head at the whole surreality of it, Xander left his bag on the floor   
and got up. He took a look around himself, feeling oddly like the star of an old   
western movie, completely surrounded by big haystacks that were being   
transported to an unknown destination.  
  
Xander sat down almost at the edge of the doorway, leaning his back on its open   
frame. He looked at Sunnydale, as its buildings passed by quickly at first –   
then the train left them behind, gaining speed once it passed the town limits.  
  
He had only the vaguest notion that they were heading north.  
  
Where he was going, he had no idea. When he would arrive there, he didn't know.   
What he would do once he got there, that was a complete mystery to him.  
  
=But if there's one thing I do know,= he told himself as took out the picture   
from his pocket and looked at it, the wind making it flap and tremble in his   
grasp. =It's that no matter where life takes me, no matter how much time I need,   
no matter what I have to do, there will come a day when Sunnydale will see me   
return home.=  
  
He paused for a moment. =For better or worse.=  
  
Letting his hand rest on his lap, still holding the picture almost   
absent-mindedly, Xander looked back at his home town, getting smaller and   
smaller in the distance.  
  
He never noticed he was crying, not even when the first tears, red with his   
blood, hit the picture on his lap.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
Far away, sitting on her unmade bed, a brunette girl looked out her window,   
holding a framed picture against her chest as if it was the most precious thing   
in the world.  
  
Very slowly, as if she feared to see what was in that picture, she took it away   
from her chest and looked down at it.  
  
She was there, her face radiant with a happiness that would seem impossible for   
her to possess if anyone looked at her right now. She was hugging a handsome   
dark-haired boy as he playfully tried to kiss her on her cheek, one of his arms   
hugging her close to him, the other one holding her head.  
  
And, even when she seemed to resist his show of affection, she had both of her   
arms around him too.  
  
She looked up from the picture and, even when no sound came out from her lips,   
the tears that fell from her eyes and onto the cold glass surface of the frame,   
spoke volumes for her.  
  
Lord help me to be strong  
On this road I travel on  
When I'm lost and lonely find me  
My journey's just begun  
And I'm not the only one  
  
"I want to know what love is", Foreigner  
  
~~~~~~  
  
To be continued... 


	3. Part 3 of 8

DR2 - The Cross of Changes by Nick Midian, Book II, part 3 of 8   
  
Written by Nick Midian   
  
Content beta-reading and storyline suggestions by Duncan  
English grammar, spelling, slang, Highlander continuity and general corrections   
by Theo  
French slang, content beta-reading and storyline suggestions by Mash  
French slang by Alan  
  
  
EMAIL: jcaballero@euskalnet.net  
  
WEBSITE: http://www.angelfire.com/tv2/thedarkages  
  
SPOILERS: For Buffy the Vampire Slayer: 3rd season, BUT no Xander/Willow kissing   
and no Lover's Walk (welcome to the wonderful State of Denial, Land of   
'Shippiness). Hmmm, I've messed with the third season's timeline to accommodate   
it to my necessities. Let's just say that 'Band Candy' happened a lot later than   
it did, around the first days of February, OK?  
For Highlander: None really, the characters of the TV series and films are only   
tangentially mentioned. You just need to know the basics of Highlander-style   
immortality, BUT I've always thought that whole 'Immortals have no parents and   
are found in a little basket' is a... um, the Spanish word for it is 'chorrada',   
so let's just ignore it, OK?  
KEYWORDS: Romance, Angst, Action-adventure, Violence, Alternate Universe,   
Crossover.  
RATING: PG-13 with some mild R parts for violence and sexual innuendo.  
DISCLAIMER: This story has been written with no intention of profit, merely for   
the pleasure of writing and sharing it.  
The concept and characters of BTVS (Buffy, Angel, Cordelia, Xander, Willow, Oz,   
Giles, Joyce, Spike, Drusilla, Snyder, Faith, Harmony, Lyle Gorch, Quentin   
Travers and the rest) are intellectual and legal property of Joss Whedon, Warner   
Brothers, Mutant Enemy, etc. Also, the concept of Highlander and the characters   
mentioned here (Duncan MacLeod, Amanda Darieux, Richie Ryan, Joe Dawson and the   
Society of Watchers) are the property of Panzer-Davis and Rysher Entertainment.  
Michael Deveraux, Rachel Curran, Crystal Parker, Kyle White Owl, Robert   
Coltrane, Elvis the Dog, Broderick Egoyan, Damon Frost, Mr. Smith, the World   
Committee for Civil Defense and the rest are my own creation.  
All the songs and lyrics here are used without permission, they are copyright of   
their respective rights owners.  
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Please, understand that English is not my native language, so   
any grammatical or spelling errors are my fault, not of any one of my wonderful   
beta-readers. If you're thinking of sending any flames, please be kind with me.   
I'm a grown man, but I still can cry like a child, believe me.  
Additional Author's Note: The songs performed by Oz's band are 'Loli Jackson'   
and 'Serenade' by Dover. It appears courtesy of Subterfuge records. All rights   
reserved, yadda, yadda, yadda...   
SUMMARY: After the events in 'Dark Reflection' a new threat menaces both the   
Slayerettes and the Archangels as new and old enemies come to Sunnydale, merging   
past and present. This time, it's something personal - ta-da-da-dam!!! (sorry,   
but I just had to say that)  
  
And now, on with the show. Fasten your seat belts ladies and gentlemen, because   
it's going to be a long, hard and jumpy ride...   
  
~~~~~~  
  
The cast for Book II  
  
  
Nicholas Brendon as Xander Harris  
Charisma Carpenter as Cordelia Chase  
  
Sarah Michelle Gellar as Buffy Summers  
David Boreanaz as Angel  
Alyson Hannigan as Willow Rosenberg  
Seth Green as Daniel 'Oz' Osborne  
Anthony Stewart Head as Rupert Giles  
Kristine Sutherland as Joyce Summers  
  
Matthew Perry as Michael Deveraux  
Paula Trickey as Rachel Curran  
James Marsters as Spike  
Nikki Cox as Crystal Parker  
David James Elliott as Kyle White Owl  
Elvis the Dog as Himself  
  
Eliza Dushku as Faith Adams  
Donald Sutherland as The Old Chess Player, Broderick Egoyan  
Sebastian Spence as Damon Frost  
Avery Brooks as Mr. Smith  
  
Mercedes MacNab as Harmony Kendall  
Armin Shimerman as Principal Snyder  
Amy Chance as Aphrodesia  
Persia White as Aura  
  
Alan Rickman as Conrad Swann  
Wesley Snipes as Talon Pantera  
Dennis Rodman as Rush Pantera  
Tom Berenger as Colonel Cabbot Ashe  
Michael Ironside as the Sergeant  
Trevor Goddard as Backlash  
Shaquille O'Neal as Beast  
Jet Li as Bushido  
  
with  
  
Kevin Spacey as Robert Coltrane  
Nicholas Lea as Jonah Whalls  
and  
Catherine Zeta-Jones as the Lady in Red  
  
~~~~~~  
  
CHAPTER FIVE: Dangerous liaisons  
Sunnydale, California. December 3, 2002. 4:05 a.m.  
  
Take a journey to the mind of a riddler  
Allusion, mass confusion, question mark, clue-sion  
What, where, why, who-sion  
It's like a maze within yourself  
  
"The Riddler", the Method Man  
  
  
Xander was so cold, that he could hardly feel his fingers. He was so tired that   
he could barely feel anything at all – except the hands of the love of his life,   
holding him, protecting him.  
  
One around his naked torso, the other one restlessly caressing his hair with a   
comforting, familiar gesture.  
  
She was the only thing he could still feel, and she was everywhere. Above him,   
below him, lying next to him... she was with him and her presence, her love   
cleaned and comforted him like a healing bandage.  
  
Cordelia was his strength, his support and his shield. If he hadn't had her, he   
would be as dead as his body was.  
  
Because he wasn't breathing. His heart wasn't beating. And his soul... well, it   
was still there, but now it was dirty and poisoned by the other's touch, by her   
obscene kiss and dark embrace.  
  
Xander carried her mark with shame, and he wasn't able to figure out how he was   
going to get rid of it.  
  
"What time is it?" he managed to ask, without turning around on her lap to look   
at her. His voice was ragged, tired, almost unrecognizable.  
  
"Really late at night," she softly told him, never stopping her comforting   
caress, "or really early in the morning. It kinda depends on your point of   
view."  
  
He chuckled on her behalf and this time, he did turn to look at her. There was   
no pity in her expression or in her seemingly bottomless eyes, and it surprised   
him. He was only able to find pure love and deep tenderness, and the total   
absence of that bright hardness she used to carry as a shield.  
  
She didn't need it with him, and she knew it.  
  
"I love you," he said, with heart-felt sincerity.  
  
She just smiled and leaned on him, pressing her forehead against his cold one.   
She was soft and warm, as dreams used to be.  
  
"I know," she whispered, her breath caressing his lips, "and I love you too."  
  
He shook his head in amazement. "You shouldn't. I only bring pain and sorrow to   
those who care about me. I'm a impediment more than a help, I'm- hey!" Xander   
exclaimed in sudden pain, and looked at her with surprise. "You pinched me!"  
  
"Yeah," she admitted shamelessly, "and I'll do it again if I hear you talking   
like that. If I'd wanted a brooding boyfriend, I would've stolen Angel from   
Buffy years ago, Xander Harris!"  
  
Blinking in astonishment, Xander rubbed the sore spot on his arm where Cordelia   
had tweaked him mercilessly. "Well, excuse me for voicing my pain, Mistress."  
  
Sighing, Cordelia rolled her eyes. "Xander, listen to me very carefully, OK? I   
will never, never stop you from coming to me when you need to talk to me, when   
you need to unburden your soul or, as you've called it, 'voice your pain'. I'll   
try to be there for you every time you need me to be, no matter if you think you   
need me, you want me or if you don't..."  
  
"But?"  
  
"But I won't tolerate this kind of talk, Xander. I don't want to hear your   
self-blame or you torturing yourself with something that isn't your fault. No   
one is going to put down the man I love, Xander, not even you."  
  
Half-closing his eyes, Xander examined her face in wonder, her precious features   
lit only by the almost-full moon. "I've said it before, Cor, but I feel the need   
to repeat it: I love you."  
  
Her smile could have switched on a hundred 50,000-watt lamps.  
  
"Does that mean that we can leave here now?" she asked him hopefully. "Because   
we've spent the last five hours in this mud and, frankly, my ass is cold, wet   
and flat."  
  
Chuckling, Xander was finally able to find inside himself the strength necessary   
to stand up and he took Cordelia's hand in his, helping her up. She smiled to   
him and, without bothering to clean her dirty skirt, began to walk to the parked   
Cadillac, which was still waiting for them not far away.  
  
Nevertheless, Xander held her back and yanked at her arm, making her practically   
fall into his arms.  
  
"Xander!" she squeaked. "What-?"  
  
Her surprised question was cut short when he slammed his lips against hers,   
kissing her almost furiously, ravishing her mouth and enveloping her into his   
arms. After the first moments of surprise, he felt her responding to his touch,   
practically melting into his embrace as she buried a deep moan in his mouth.  
  
"And this?" she asked, leaning her forehead against his when they finally broke   
apart and after taking a moment to regain her breath.  
  
"For being there when I need you, wanted or not. For helping me to live. For   
being you, Cordy."  
  
She smiled and, for the first time that long night, Xander felt himself smiling   
too.  
  
"Come with me," she softly told him, taking his hand once more in her slender   
one. This time the two of them walked to walk towards the black car, leaving   
Xander's cold and empty grave behind them.  
  
Inside the black Coupe DeVille, Rachel shook Michael's shoulder and the French   
Immortal, who had been softly snoring with his head leaned on the window's   
glass, woke up, looking around a little disoriented.  
  
"What?" he asked, stretching and yawning.  
  
"They're coming back," Rachel informed him. Immediately, the both of them got   
out of the car and went to see their friends.  
  
"How are you, mon frère?" Michael asked his friend with sincere worry, looking   
straight in his dark brown eyes.  
  
The young vampire just shrugged, wrapped in Cordelia's coat. "I've had better   
days, if you want to know the truth."  
  
The French Immortal managed a half-smile, and nodded knowingly. "Bien, why don't   
we go back home and you have a good sleep?"  
  
"After taking a long hot shower," Rachel observed while they were getting into   
the black Cadillac. "You have to be frozen."  
  
"Yeah," Cordelia agreed, letting Xander rest on her shoulder when they got into   
the back seat, "I'll take care of making him do that."  
  
"Don't forget to check that he's washed himself behind his ears," Michael   
commented dryly, starting the car and driving it in reverse to the walkway.   
"Lord knows he is a rebel kid."  
  
"Michael?" Xander called to him over the laughter of the two women.  
  
"Oui, mon ami?"  
  
"Has anyone ever told you before, to keep your big French mouth shut?"  
  
The French Immortal just flashed a smile to him through the rear-view mirror and   
began to drive his huge coupe to the cemetery's exit. Maybe, if they were lucky,   
the night would come soon to an end.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
She opened her almond eyes, and the first thing she saw was a chubby cherub   
floating on a cotton-like cloud, surrounded by a legion of trumpet-playing and   
robe-clad blonde angels.  
  
The whole scene was so sweet, that she felt a deep sensation of nausea rocking   
her stomach.  
  
It had be that, or the fact that she was really hungry.  
  
Taking her eyes away from the fresco on the ceiling, Faith blinked repeatedly,   
trying to make the cobwebs in her drugged brain vanish so she could take a good   
look around herself and find out where the hell she had been taken to.  
  
Surprisingly, her captors hadn't taken her to a fate worse than death, as she   
had feared at first; at least, judging by the fact that fresh and wonderfully   
soft satin sheets were caressing her skin. Taking a good look around, she found   
herself in a huge bed placed in a spacious room.  
  
A seemingly thick and expensive angora carpet covered the floor, the only window   
had its blinds closed and the door in the opposite wall was closed as well. The   
only other thing in the room, apart from herself and the closet in front of the   
comfortable bed were the angels painted on the ceiling, and an insulated   
container resting on the thick carpet near the bed.  
  
"Curiouser and curiouser," she whispered.  
  
And getting more and more curious by the second, as she noticed that she was   
completely naked under the cold sheets, and that all traces of the previous   
night's fight had been carefully cleaned from her skin and hair.  
  
The few wounds that her mixed Slayer and vampire abilities hadn't still healed   
had been carefully bandaged, and even her long dark hair was clean and fresh.   
  
Someone had taken good care of her.  
  
Leaning on the bed, feeling a pleasurable chill run through her undead body at   
the caress of the satin against her naked skin, Faith opened the container and   
found a medical blood bag carefully conserved between dry ice packages.  
  
Feeling hungry, she lost no time in taking it and, allowing her game face to   
show, ripped it open with her elongated fangs. Nevertheless, she stopped just   
when she was going to begin sucking the blood.  
  
What if it was also drugged?  
  
"Go ahead," a deep voice informed her, "it's clean and fresh."  
  
Raising her red and gold eyes, not allowing them to show her surprise, Faith   
found a large, black and bald man, the same one that had captured her, standing   
up by the now opened door, looking down at her with cold and fearless eyes.  
  
How he had managed to sneak into the room without her noticing it was a mystery   
to her.  
  
She hissed at him and he just raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Who are you?" she   
asked, looking at him warily.  
  
Placing his crossed hands in front of him, he tilted his bald head slightly to   
one side. "My name's Mr. Smith," he informed her matter-of-factly.  
  
Faith couldn't help but to snicker. "Really? You were late when they distributed   
the fake names, or what?"  
  
Smith looked at her in silence, ignoring her commentary, and Faith finally began   
to suck from the blood bag with long and greedy slurps. If the man felt   
uncomfortable or some kind of loathing at witnessing her feeding, his cold face   
didn't show it.  
  
"I'm just here to inform you that you're a guest in this house," he told her   
when the former Slayer finished the bag, "and that your host will see you soon,   
at his earliest convenience."  
  
Raising a brown eyebrow as she let her human mask appear again over her demonic   
face, Faith wiped her lips clean with the back of her hand and got up from the   
bed, carrying the upper sheet along to cover her nakedness.  
  
"And who is this mysterious host that uses a massive dose of drugs as an   
invitation?" she asked.  
  
"You will find out soon, Miss Faith," he said, opening the door to go out.   
"Until then, please make yourself comfortable. There are some clothes in the   
closet that will fit your size."  
  
Faith looked at him with a half-smile on her full lips. "You were the one   
who's..."  
  
"...accommodated you?" He finished for her. "Such were my orders, and now, if   
you don't need anything else..."  
  
"Just one more question," the former Slayer stopped him from going out. Smith   
turned around, the slightly arching of his brow the only expression on his   
otherwise cold façade.  
  
"Tell me... Mr. Smith," she purred, walking close to him with a very feminine   
gait as she held the sheet tightly against her breasts, "nothing makes you snap,   
ever? Nothing?"  
  
Then, Faith let the sheet fall to the floor and stood in front of him completely   
naked, leaning her hands on her waist.  
  
Smith's expression didn't change, not even for the smallest fraction of a   
second. "Very few things," he told her, before turning around and walking out of   
the room, closing the door behind him.  
  
Sighing, Faith heard the turning of the key in the door's lock and she turned   
herself around with mock disappointment.  
  
"You lose it, boy," she said to no one in particular as she walked to the   
closet.   
  
Opening it, the former Slayer took a look at its contents. "Now, let's see what   
Santa has brought this year," she whispered with a wide, girly smile.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
Holding the bottle by its neck, Xander used his thumb to unscrew the cap, which   
practically flew off the bottle and fell on the kitchen table, bouncing on its   
surface and finally disappearing off the edge.  
  
Not bothering to recover it, the young dark-haired vampire poured himself a   
large measure of Jack Daniel's in his glass; meanwhile he ripped the plastic   
envelope of a cigarette package with his teeth, opening it and bringing one to   
his lips.  
  
Putting the package on the table with a sigh, Xander lit the cigarette on his   
lips with the aid of his golden Zippo lighter. He took a long and slow drag from   
it, filling his lungs with the acrid and burning smoke and then exhaling it with   
pleasure, leaning back on the chair and closing his eyes as he propped up his   
feet on the table.  
  
"I thought that Cordy had made you abandon that nasty little vice," Angel's   
unmistakably deep voice came out from the shadows of the kitchen.  
  
Allowing his lips to show a tired smile, Xander searched and found his   
blood-brother's dark figure with his skillful eyes. The older vampire walked out   
of the shadows and to the table, sitting down in front of him.  
  
Xander couldn't help but to arch his brow at seeing him, dressed only in black   
pants and a white undershirt; completely barefoot, he looked more human than   
he'd ever seen him. =God, he even has bed hair.=  
  
"Are you gonna bust me?" Xander asked, after taking another long drag from his   
cigarette.  
  
Smiling, Angel took another cigarette from the package and borrowed Xander's   
lighter from the table. "Only if you bust me first," he said, lighting it.  
  
Surprised, Xander couldn't help but stare in amazement as the souled vampire   
took a long drag and exhaled a thick cloud of gray-blue smoke.  
  
"Your secret dies with me. Didn't know you smoked," the vampiric Immortal   
commented, while moving a second glass towards Angel and filling it with the   
amber contents of the bottle.  
  
Angel shrugged, removing importance from the matter. "Angelus' heritage goes   
beyond feeling guilty and wearing leather pants. How are you, Xander? And how is   
it that you're not with Cordy?"  
  
Xander shook his head, taking his glass and letting his hand warm the amber   
liquid before taking a good gulp and grimacing slightly when the alcohol burned   
his throat.  
  
"She was so exhausted that she fell asleep the moment her head hit the pillow,   
and I... well, I just needed this. What about Buffy?" he asked.  
  
"Basically the same, I've left her sleeping in Rachel's room, safely tucked in.   
I heard you out here, and I figured you could use some company – was I wrong?"  
  
At Xander's lack of response, the souled vampire looked at him through   
half-closed eyes over the rim of his glass before sipping from it, all the time   
not moving his attention away from his younger blood-brother. "Is there anything   
you want to share with me?"  
  
Biting his lower lip, Xander shook his head and his hair, still wet from the   
shower he had taken not long before, let out a thin rain of pearl-like drops of   
water.  
  
Angel took a good look at the much younger man, and noticed with amazement that   
they were wearing almost exactly the same clothes; only Xander's T-shirt was   
dark gray, as opposed to his white one.  
  
His dark brown eyes had lost almost all their usual warmth and his expression   
was so pale, tired and haunted, that Angel thought that Xander could easily be   
taken to be his younger brother.  
  
Then Angel figured that Xander was that, from a certain point of view; and that,   
much to his growing surprise, he really considered him to be like a real   
brother.  
  
"I don't know if I can make you understand how I feel right now," Xander said in   
a voice so low that it almost passed unnoticed to Angel's sharp ears.  
  
The souled vampire just raised an eyebrow, concentrating on the waves that the   
movement of his hand caused on the surface of his bourbon.  
  
"You're confused," he said without raising his eyes to look straight at him,   
"your whole world has been shaken up, torn apart and broken right in front of   
you. Suddenly you're not able to differentiate black from white, up from down or   
left from right."   
  
He continued, "You think you should be accustomed to that by now – because your   
life has been a constant roller coaster for so long, that you can't even   
remember when was the last time that it was anything that could be considered   
'normal'."  
  
Angel paused to take a gulp of bourbon, and ended up finishing it. Then, while   
he refilled his glass, he resumed his analysis without raising his eyes to his   
companion.  
  
"You want to love and comfort those you care about, and you want them to love   
you back and to accept you. But you can neither completely give yourself to them   
nor allow them to know how you really are, because you're afraid of hurting them   
in the process and of being hurt yourself."  
  
He paused again. "You feel attracted towards those you think you hate, not only   
because of physical, psychological or even mystical reasons; but because you   
think that they would accept you as you are without question or doubt. That they   
would even welcome that darker part of yourself that you fear and like so much   
at the same time."  
  
Taking a last drag from his cigarette, Angel let the smoke out through his nose   
as he carefully crushed the ember butt on the ashtray.  
  
Then, he finally raised his eyes to Xander, finding him looking back at him with   
an open-mouthed and deeply amazed expression. "Am I close enough?"  
  
"Wow," Xander simply said, "you hit the proverbial nail right on the head." He   
blinked, shaking his head and mocking a shiver. "Either you know what you're   
talking about, or you're a damn good fortune-teller, Angie."  
  
The souled vampire shrugged, passing a hand over his mouth with a tired gesture.   
"Personal experience and a little dose of empathy speaking, I guess."  
  
"Well, do you also know a cure, by any chance?"  
  
Sighing, Angel leaned on the table. "I guess that turning into dust is out of   
the question." Xander just looked at him sideways and didn't even bother to   
answer him but, in the end, both shared a mocking smile.  
  
"Sadly, I have to say that, as with most things in life, the only cure is time,   
rest and the support of those that care for you."  
  
Shaking his head, Xander swallowed down the rest of his glass and quickly   
refilled it, feeling the bourbon beginning to warm his belly with a comforting   
fire. "I wish it could be as simple as that, Angel, but I don't think so. I just   
can't explain how Faith made me feel tonight. I love Cordy with all my heart and   
soul, you know that, but tonight..."  
  
"Tonight, you would have done anything Faith had asked you – lie, steal, betray,   
kill... whatever. And you would've been happy if she had just smiled at you."   
Once more, Angel's empathy surprised Xander.  
  
"It's always like that? Between the sire and childe, I mean."  
  
Angel shrugged, and for a second his dark eyes were very distant and unfocused,   
as if he was remembering something from long ago. "When Darla turned me, she   
took me under her wing – she became my mother, my lover, my teacher and my   
mentor. For 150 years we traveled together throughout Europe, and she showed me   
things I'd have never thought possible. Thing about life, about death, about sex   
and about the true nature of the world."  
  
Angel raised his eyes from his glass, and looked at Xander ominously from under   
his eyebrows. "And trust me, I was a damn good pupil."  
  
Captivated by his tone and words, Xander looked at the souled vampire in silence   
for a few seconds and, when he was finally able to swallow the knot formed in   
his throat, his voice was low and reverent. "And how... how did you... break up   
with her?"  
  
Angel's snort caught Xander by surprise, and the young vampire looked at him   
though half-closed eyes as the much older one focused his stare back on the   
surface of his drink.  
  
"How did I break up with Darla? I don't know if I ever really did. I don't know   
if any vampire ever really frees himself from his sire's heritage. Even at the   
end, when I staked her to save Buffy, something inside me cried when I saw her   
turning into dust," he said.  
  
"Then that's it?" Xander grunted. "I'm condemned to be Faith's puppy until I   
find the strength to kill her, or she gets tired of me? They're the only options   
I got?"  
  
Muttering under his breath, the younger vampire brought a second cigarette to   
his mouth. "Well, don't mind me, but that sucks."  
  
Smiling and shaking his head, Angel got up from his chair, carefully leaving his   
glass in the center of the table. "You're not like me, li'l bro – you don't have   
make the same mistakes I did, nor follow my path."  
  
"Then what do I do?" Xander asked him, looking up at him with a curious mixture   
of hope, fear and uncertainty in his brown eyes.  
  
Angel didn't answer him, he just walked away but, at the last moment before   
vanishing into the shadows of the warehouse, he stopped and looked back at him   
over his shoulder. "Do you know what is that I envy the most about you?"  
  
Xander arched his brow; the idea that Angel could envy anything about him, had   
never really crossed his mind. "My handsome bod and good-looking face?"  
  
If Angel found his quip funny, his face didn't register it. Instead, he just   
gave him a slow and sad smile. "That you always find inside yourself the   
strength to fight back, Xander. No matter how hard they hit you, you never let   
them keep you down."  
  
"I ran away once," the young vampire told him matter-of-factly.  
  
"Yeah, and three years later you're back here, rebuilding your life." Angel   
shook his head in amazement. "I needed a whole century even to get that far," he   
observed, before finally disappearing into the darkness and back to his love.  
  
Xander remained in silence for a long time, his eyes lost into the spot that   
Angel had vacated. Then, very slowly, he lit his cigarette and leaned back in   
his chair, his feet propped up on the table, his head bent backwards and his   
eyes closed.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
When the sky turns gray, that is when the night is about to die. When the sun   
begins to rise on the horizon, chasing the darkness away, the vampires know that   
their time has ended as the day approaches and, as if they shared one collective   
impulse, they search for a secluded place to spent the daylight hours.  
  
Well, at least that's what most of them do.  
  
The bleached-hair vampire known as Spike, for example, was too preoccupied   
asking himself what the bloody hell was going on with him, to even notice that   
the moment was arriving to pack up his things and go back home.  
  
His current and main problem was, he thought with his cold blue eyes fixed on an   
indeterminate spot on the ceiling, that he had never felt as good as he had   
right then. And, for the sake of his own unlife, he wasn't able to figure what   
was the reason why.  
  
Well, there was the obvious fact that there was a warm, soft and nicely curved   
feminine body tightly pressed against his cold one, but he refused to believe   
that this was the reason for his state.  
  
After all, it wasn't the first time that he had spent the night with a human,   
although it actually was the first that he had dawned with one. And, to make   
things even more confusing, he had to admit that the present situation was very   
innocent, and much more if it was compared with most (not to say all) of the   
similar ones he had experimented with throughout the years.  
  
Willow stirred by his side and made a curious sound, like the one of a kitten,   
as she made herself more comfortable in her sleep, absent-mindedly throwing an   
arm over his abdomen and a leg over his knees.  
  
Spike gulped down a thick knot in his throat, and bit his lower lip. =This ain't   
happenin' to me,= he told himself while he looked away from her, trying to find   
a more interesting subject to captivate his attention.  
  
=Innocent. Everything's innocent,= he repeated, trying to convince himself of   
that fact.  
  
They had been wolf-sitting Oz, reading, chatting and laughing together with that   
surprising and unexpected ease that flowed between them, listening to the radio   
and sometimes even daring to sing along the lines of a particular song that both   
of them happened to like.  
  
She had laughed at his horrible lack of singing ability and he had laughed with   
her, both of them enjoying the time until Willow's sea-green eyes had finally   
betrayed her tiredness and he had told her to go to sleep.  
  
She, of course, had refused to do so. She had a responsibility towards Oz and   
she intended to take care of it.  
  
In the end, she had practically fallen on the book she was reading, and he had   
finally managed to convince her to sleep the rest of the night while he watched   
Oz. He would take care of everything.  
  
=Yeah, right.=  
  
He could swear by the most sacred things to him that he had intended to follow   
his word, that he had been watching Oz's prone form, hearing his snore and   
feeling utterly stupid. Thinking that probably the werewolf's   
phenobarbital-soaked brain was probably having a better time than his, when he   
had closed his eyes just for a mere second.  
  
The next thing he knew was waking up at the call of the approaching dawn,   
looking down and seeing a cloud of auburn hair on his chest.  
  
They were sleeping together. And, worst of all, he was enjoying it more than   
what he thought could be possible.  
  
He looked down at her, at her sweet face so relaxed and peaceful during her   
slumber, at her long eyebrows resting on her soft cheeks and the lovable pout on   
her lips. The realization that she was beautiful hit him with the force of a   
pile-driver, and if it didn't leave him breathless it was because he hadn't   
taken a single breath in more than one hundred years.  
  
Willow stirred once more and moaned, rubbing her face against his chest.  
  
=Oh boy, I'm in deep trouble.=  
  
"Think unpleasant thoughts, think unpleasant thoughts..." he mumbled almost   
maniacally, closing his eyes. =OK, being beaten to a bloody pulp by the Slayer,   
that's bad... most o' the time. Feedin' on a rat in a time of need, yeah, yeah,   
that is disgustin'... Angelus in a leather thong – Lucifer, that's too horrible   
to even...=  
  
"Hmmm?" Willow murmured, her leg beginning to run up and down his. If he wasn't   
so sure she was asleep, he would have thought that she was teasing him.  
  
Gulping down a thick knot that had formed in his throat again, Spike surrendered   
to temptation and sank his nose into the young woman's bright cloud of red hair.  
  
Wonderful, she simply smelled wonderful.  
  
"Oz?" she muttered, stirring again.  
  
Spike opened his eyes, feeling suddenly cold. At least, it could be said that   
the little witch knew how to break a spell.  
  
Coughing softly, the bleached-hair vampire extricated himself from under the   
red-haired apprentice of Wicca until he was finally off of the couch and knelt   
down beside it, softly shaking Willow by her shoulder.  
  
"Hey," he called her, "wake up, Red."  
  
Willow blinked her eyes open, frowning at the sudden clarity of the room, and   
rubbed them with her closed fists as she stretched sinuously and let out a long   
yawn. "Spike?" she finally acknowledged her partner. "What time is it?"  
  
"Time for all the good vampires to be off to bed," he observed with a smile,   
somehow unable to keep his eyes off of Willow's still sleepy ones.  
  
She looked adorable. Good enough to eat.  
  
"And for you?" she asked with a wicked smile.  
  
Spike brought a hand to his heart and mocked a grimace of pain. "Ouch! Now   
that's 'urt me, luv!"  
  
Willow giggled and stood up, rearranging her messed up hair and clothes, she   
felt strangely good that morning. "And Oz?"  
  
The British vampire pointed at him, with a sharp shake of his head. "Still full   
of hair. The sun still hasn't come up, which fact I should use to go back to the   
warehouse without bein' turned into a scorched version of me 'andsome self."  
  
The red haired apprentice of witchcraft just raised an eyebrow with incredulity.   
"Handsome?"  
  
Standing up and taking his black duster, Spike flashed a leery grin to her.   
"C'mon, Red, you know ya want me."  
  
"Oh yeah," she sarcastically told him, "I can hardly control myself."  
  
With a last enigmatic smile, the bleached-hair vampire waved at her. "See ya   
later, luv. Say 'ullo to the Oz-man for me, OK?"  
  
"Hey!" she called him just before he walked out of the room. "You up for a   
repeat performance tonight?"  
  
"Wha'?" Spike practically squeaked, turning around, his blue eyes practically   
popping out of their sockets.  
  
Willow blinked, not getting her own double-entendre. "Do you want to keep me   
company tonight, too?"  
  
Spike didn't know whether to feel happy or disappointed. "Uh, sure. But I get to   
choose the music this time, OK?"  
  
"Whatever you want," she smiled, opening her arms, "I'm your girl."  
  
The bleached-hair vampire just looked at her with a weird expression, tilted his   
head to one side and then, shaking it, walked out of the room. Willow smiled too   
and went to take care of things, for the moment her boyfriend woke up.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
One of the peskiest things of being a vampire is that you never can check your   
own appearance in a mirror, and you have to trust in your own impressions and   
thoughts about your looks.  
  
Or, as Faith put it, not casting a reflection in the mirror really sucked.  
  
"It's a shame I can't see myself," she said out loud as she modeled her   
beautiful, tight and extremely expensive-looking attire in black and red silk   
that she had found in the closet of her room, "because I'm sure I look   
absolutely fabulous in this."  
  
"If an old man's word has any value for you," a voice said behind her, "you have   
mine about that being true."  
  
Faith turned around in surprise and found the room's door wide open, and an   
extremely old man in a wheelchair standing (or sitting) under its frame. Behind   
him, the black and enigmatic man, Mr. Smith, was standing in all his dark glory.  
  
He gently pushed the wheelchair into the room and, after an absent-minded   
dismissive gesture from the old man, went out, closing the door behind himself.   
"You look gorgeous, Miss Adams. Can I call you that?"  
  
Faith examined the old man with critical eyes. She had to be getting rusty if   
she had allowed somebody to sneak up on her without her notice; twice in the   
same day in fact, not to mention that one of them was a crippled old man.  
  
Still, looking at his blue eyes, she found that unmistakable spark of   
intelligence and ruthlessness that was common to all geniuses and madmen.   
"Sister Conception called me Miss Adams back at the orphanage. My friends, if I   
had any, would call me Faith. You're neither."  
  
The old man leaned his elbows on the armrests of the chair, and entwined the   
long and twisted fingers of his hands. Leaning his chin on them, he looked at   
Faith in silence, a predatory smile on his thin lips.  
  
"Very well then, Faith. First of all, I want to ask your pardon for the way you   
were brought to my home – but somehow, I doubted you would accept a formal   
invitation," he said.  
  
"You may have been surprised," she observed, walking around the man's wheelchair   
as she examined him, trying to file the old man under a precise category. "You   
seem to know a lot of things about me, but I'm afraid I can't even say that I   
know your name," she seductively whispered to him as she sat down on the edge of   
the bed. "It's not very polite for you to hit on a lady without even introducing   
yourself."  
  
The old man just smiled at her, if the grimace that crossed his lips and made   
him look like a vulture, could be called a smile. "My name is Egoyan. Broderick   
Egoyan, at your service."  
  
Faith raised an eyebrow. "Should your name sound familiar to me?"  
  
"No," Egoyan said with a slight shake of his head, "I've never been very fond of   
fame and popularity. I've always thought that it is in the shadows, where one   
can prosper more easily."  
  
Faith offered him an impossibly sweet and beautiful smile. "Well, now that we   
know each other properly," she said, getting up from the bed and walking to him.  
  
Then, in a second, she was in front of him with full game face on, capturing his   
hands against the armrests of the chair, "give me one good reason why I   
shouldn't rip out your windpipe."  
  
If Egoyan felt any kind of fear or apprehension, his face didn't show it. "What   
is it you want most in the world?" he simply asked her.  
  
Faith tilted her head to one side, her red and gold eyes fixed on his cold blue   
ones. "That's none of your business."  
  
"No?" he said almost with a chuckle. "Not even if I told you that I can help you   
to get it?" he leaned closer to her, whispering in her ear. "Not even if I told   
you that I can help you get your Xander back?"  
  
With a growl, Faith grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket, effortlessly   
lifting him from the chair. "Don't talk about things you can't know or even   
understand," she warned him.  
  
Egoyan just chuckled, not scared in the least by the former Slayer's attitude.   
"That's where you're wrong, my dear. I know exactly what I'm talking about."  
  
His eyes fixed on hers and, just for a second, Faith felt herself chilled to the   
core by the silent blue fire that burned in the old man's orbs. "I haven't spent   
the last few years preparing this, waiting for this, without doing my homework."  
  
Silently, with great care, Faith let him relax in the chair. "What do you want   
from me?"  
  
"Just a simple quid pro quo, Faith." At the vampire's blank stare, Egoyan rolled   
his eyes. "An exchange."  
  
Allowing her human mask to come back, Faith returned to the bed. "Oh, you   
scratch my back and I scratch yours, that kind of thing, huh? Well, I hope that   
you don't have anything," she crossed her legs seductively, "naughty on your   
mind."  
  
Egoyan's grim expression was broken by a tight and cold smile. "That's exactly   
what I have in mind, only not in the way that you're suggesting. I'm going to   
play a little game of chess, Faith. I already have my pawns, my knights, my   
bishops and my rooks. The only thing I need is my most desired piece. I want my   
Black Queen. I want you."  
  
Faith looked at him, with suspicion and intrigue. "And what's the prize for the   
winner in this game of yours?"  
  
The old man's smile could have frozen the most raging of Hell's fires. "Power.   
Eternity. And, in the end, the world itself. Could it be any other way?"  
  
~~~~~~  
  
Even before opening her eyes, the first thing that Cordelia noticed after waking   
up was that she was alone in bed. That sensation – even when it had been the   
most predominant one in her whole life – brought a cold sense of emptiness to   
her, that rocked the young woman to her most inner core.  
  
"Xander?" she called her lover, feeling her voice still dense and sticky with   
the last traces of slumber and a little high-pitched with the first ones of   
worry.  
  
Nevertheless, her anxiety was almost immediately placated when she heard his   
voice calling her back, bathing her like a soothing balm.  
  
"I'm here, Cordy," he told her.  
  
Leaning her head back on the pillow, Cordelia finally opened her eyes, finding   
the young vampire seated on the chair that was the only mobile furniture in his   
spartan room at the warehouse.  
  
He was beside the window and the first rays of the dawning sun were filtering   
through the venetian blinds, tracing lines of glowing gold and dark shadows on   
his impossibly handsome features.  
  
He was looking down at her and his chocolate eyes were like a pair of calm   
fires, warming her, melting her.  
  
At that exact moment, seeing the young vampire's feelings exposed so raw and   
palpably on his face and eyes, so pure and sincere, Cordelia Chase felt more   
loved and cherished than at any other time of her life. She was a lucky woman.  
  
"What are you doing there?" she asked him gently, her voice nothing more than a   
whisper.  
  
Xander smiled at her with the same gentleness and secretiveness. "I like to   
watch you while you're sleeping," he confessed. "I like the way you look,   
innocent, unguarded... beautiful."  
  
Cordelia closed her eyes and smiled, fighting not to blush. "Such suaveness...   
I'm flattered."  
  
He smiled once again, and shook his head. "I speak from the heart."  
  
"I know that," she extended her arm to him, beckoning the young and dark-haired   
vampire. "Come here."  
  
Like an obedient puppy, Xander did as he was told, getting up from the chair,   
taking her hand in his and slipping between the soft sheets, warmed by her soft   
and feminine body.  
  
They wrapped their arms around each other and lay still on the bed, their faces   
barely inches apart. "You should get some rest," she advised him as he slowly   
rubbed her nose with his one with a playful and soft caress. "Last night was   
very hard on you."  
  
=More than what you can even imagine,= he thought, abstaining from voicing it   
aloud. "I'm too wired up to sleep," he just told her, kissing her slightly on   
her lips.  
  
Cordelia raised a cold eyebrow. "Oh, and you thought you could discharge some   
tension here with me, did you?"  
  
He smiled, kissing her once more on the lips before beginning to run his mouth   
all over her jaw and neck. "The thought crossed my mind, I must confess."  
  
She gently pushed him away, looking at him with amazed horror. "That's all I am   
to you? A sex toy to alleviate your urges?"  
  
Xander smiled playfully. "Oh, but you're such a beautiful toy..."  
  
She slapped his shoulder when she felt his hands wandering down her body to cup   
her round and tight buttocks. "Xander!"  
  
He laughed and brought his mouth against hers, kissing her long, deep and   
lovingly. After a few moments of playful struggling and soft laughs, Cordelia   
turned the tables, trapping him with her thighs and straddling him, her long   
dark mane of hair cascading around her face and shoulders.  
  
"Be quiet, and I'll show you who's the boss around here," she told him with a   
menacing purr.  
  
Xander raised an eyebrow. "Is that a threat?"  
  
She just smiled smugly. "You can be sure of that, baby."  
  
The young vampire slumped his shoulders down and let his arms fall in defeat. He   
looked up at her, lost in her hazel eyes and beautiful face.  
  
"OK then, Cordy," he smiled at her. "Show me."  
  
~~~~~~  
  
"What are you going to do today?" he asked her much later, while he caressed her   
hair as her head, pillowed on his chest, rose and fell at the rhythm of his   
breathing. "Got any interesting plans?"  
  
Cordelia sighed and shook her head as she stroke his flat and muscled belly, her   
fingertips playing with the soft path of hairs down his bellybutton. "Nothing   
worth mentioning, classes and that kind of boring thing. Do you have any better   
plans?"  
  
Xander frowned, raising his eyes to the ceiling. "What have I got on my list of   
things to do today? Let's see, ah... find Faith, get free from the sire-childe   
bond and kill her without becoming a mindless bloodsucking fiend in the process;   
oh, and do laundry too. I think that's all."  
  
Surrounding his torso with her arms, Cordelia accommodated herself on the bed,   
turning her head around on Xander's chest so she could look up at his face. For   
a short moment they just looked at each other, as words became needless between   
them.  
  
Then she just traced his generous and sexy mouth with her fingertips and he   
captured her hand before she could take it away, closing his eyes and kissing   
her fingers tenderly.  
  
"I'm not gonna pretend that I completely understand what's going on, Xander,"   
she whispered reverently, as if the silence was too precious to break it, "but I   
want you to know that you can count on me, every step of the way."  
  
He smiled at her, cupping her face and caressing her cheek with his thumb. "And   
I want you to promise me something," she continued.  
  
"Whatever you want, whatever you need."  
  
"Promise me that you're not going to do something stupid like let yourself get   
killed. I don't want to lose you again."  
  
Xander's smile faltered for a second when he saw the deep emotion on his lover's   
expression, and he was barely able to manage a weak grin as he gently caressed   
her face with his knuckles.  
  
"Me?" he winked an eye to her. "I'm indestructible, sweetheart."  
  
Cordelia smiled back at him, getting more comfortable on his chest and closing   
her eyes, reveling in the shared warmth of their entangled bodies for a brief   
moment before the time for getting up finally arrived.  
  
But, lying there, she couldn't help but ask herself if the harsh light of day   
wouldn't be as unmerciful with them as the cold darkness of the night.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
When she finally accompanied the man calling himself Broderick Egoyan out of her   
elegant yet restrictive place of confinement, Faith walked by his wheelchair,   
which was being pushed by that cold and black sphinx that was Mr. Smith.  
  
She marveled to herself as they crossed huge rooms and endless hallways full of   
valuable, yet poorly looked after, works of art and expensive furniture.  
  
"Do you like my house, Faith?" the old man asked her, noticing her wide-open   
eyes and expression.  
  
"A little cold and gloomy for my taste," she observed, resuming her step after   
making a short stop to examine closely a bust of white marble that represented   
an incredibly beautiful woman. At the foot of the statue there was a little   
placard of bronze, with a name engraved on it: 'Rebecca Egoyan'.  
  
Her beautiful and warm features had no resemblance at all to the old   
man's ones, so she figured that it was probably a sculpture of his wife.   
"Although I like the ornaments."  
  
"Yes, it's been a little abandoned after my wife... went away, a long time ago,"   
he began to cough soundly and Smith halted so the old man could regain his   
breath. "I-I'm sorry, my dear, I don't want to bore you with my old stories."  
  
Faith smiled sweetly. She liked the old man; there was something oddly familiar   
about him, as if he was the grandfather she'd never had. Well, the perverse and   
evil grandfather she had never had.  
  
=Curiously fitting,= she thought. "Where are we going now?" she asked as they   
resumed their journey through the dark mansion.  
  
"I want you to meet some people," Egoyan told her.  
  
"Who?"  
  
The old man smiled at her smugly. "Aren't we a little eager?"  
  
Faith's smile could have melted all the ice in the North Pole. "Always."  
  
"Well, don't worry, Faith. Let's say that it's some people with whom we have,   
ah-" he turned his head to look at the tall black man. "How would you express   
it, Mr. Smith?"  
  
"Common interests," he said succinctly, his eyes never waving from their point   
of destination.  
  
"Yes, yes," the old man chuckled softly, "common interests, that's it. You could   
say that we share one similar purpose."  
  
"Control of the National Football League?" Faith ventured. "Nah, that's already   
under the Mob's control. Let me guess, ah, world domination?"  
  
"No," Egoyan said with amusement, "nothing so dramatic. At least, not yet."  
  
They arrived at a set of huge double wooden doors. Not uttering a word, Smith   
opened them wide and made a silent gesture, showing them the open path, and then   
returning to push again the wheelchair into the room.  
  
"Faith," Egoyan told her as they entered the huge library, "please, say hello to   
the rest of the gang."  
  
~~~~~~  
  
"I'm coming, I'm coming," Giles grunted as he walked quickly to his apartment's   
front door, which seemed about to fall under the assault of a nervous visitor.   
The pounding stopped, and was replaced by the insistent and chirping sound of   
the bell.  
  
"I said I'm co-! Oh, it's you," he corrected himself, when he opened the door   
and found himself in front of a worried-looking Slayer. "Buffy, what-?"  
  
Without waiting for an invitation, the blonde Slayer entered her Watcher's   
apartment, practically shoving him aside in her haste to get inside.  
  
"I'm sorry if I'm interrupting something," she said, practically stumbling over   
the words, "I don't want to know if you and Mom were doing things... uh, about   
which I don't want even to think about, but-"  
  
Buffy stopped to take a good look at him, and found to her surprise that he   
looked very far from his usual neat self. Instead, his face was unshaven and   
showed the unmistakable traces of the lack of sleep and tiredness. "What   
happened to you?"  
  
Sighing tiredly, Giles adjusted his spectacles on his nose, massaged his temples   
and ran a hand through his spiked-out hair. "I've been working, researching   
something. And your mother is not here – n-not that it would be any of your   
business, by the way, we're both adults and we can-"  
  
"Giles?" The Watcher stopped his tirade and looked at her. "I really don't want   
to know."  
  
"Well, uh, no, obviously. B-but, what are you doing here?" he checked his watch,   
and grunted at seeing what time it really was. "You should be in class."  
  
"It doesn't matter right now. Neither does what you were researching, unless it   
implies a really, really, really close menace."  
  
"Well no, ah, I guess it can be postponed for now. Buffy, could you calm down   
and tell me what's going on?"  
  
The blonde Slayer took a deep breath as her Watcher guided her gently to his   
living room, and made her sit down on a couch. "I'll prepare a pot of tea," he   
said, "I guess we both could use one."  
  
Closing her eyes, Buffy tried to find some kind of calm in the sounds made by   
Giles in the near kitchen as he got a big pot of tea ready. She wouldn't usually   
admit it, but after so much time by the British man's side, she had finally   
taken a liking to some of his things, like that strong and spicy tea he loved to   
prepare.  
  
But right now, she was so mentally exhausted that she would even tell him that   
the idea of having him as a step-father was really appealing to her.  
  
"Well?" he asked, when he finally returned back to the living room with a tray   
that held the steaming pot, two cups and all those girly things that the British   
like so much to decorate their tea-parties.  
  
"Faith's back in town," she said while he was pouring one of the cups. At   
hearing this, the pot almost slipped away from Giles' grasp and a large amount   
of tea ended up wasted on the surface of the tray.  
  
"Faith?" he asked with surprise.  
  
"Faith," she confirmed with a nod. "And she hasn't come back to throw a party,   
if you know what I mean."  
  
Leaning back in his chair, Giles took off his glasses and used them to scratch   
his beard. "Well, that really adds a new dimension to...", he absent-mindedly   
began to say, stopping when he understood that he was speaking out loud. "Is,   
uh, is everybody alright? Are you alright?"  
  
"Well, yeah, I-I'm alright. It's Xander that I'm worried about. You've seen him   
in action – he's like this mixture of a Chinese martial arts movie and a   
convention of the NRA, but yesterday..." she shook her head. "Faith really hurt   
him. I though we were gonna lose him, Giles."  
  
With an unusual gesture on his behalf, Giles leaned back in his seat, biting the   
nail of his thumb. "Tell me what happened, right from the beginning."  
  
In the next few minutes, holding a cup of tea between her hands so they could be   
warmed by the hot liquid, Buffy proceeded to tell her Watcher the previous   
night's events as she remembered them.  
  
She told him about their little visit to Xander's old home, about how they had   
gone on patrol after that. The cemetery, Faith and the vampires, how Xander had   
seemed to lose control of himself. Him kissing and making out with the former   
vampire Slayer, as Buffy fought alone with the rest of her minions.  
  
She then told him about how just when Xander had seemed to be ready to kill her   
he had managed to break Faith's control and fight back, destroying her remaining   
minions and then engaging his sire in what had seemed a crazy and almost   
suicidal action.  
  
"She was very strong," Buffy told him, "more so than your usual vamp. And   
freakishly fast, too. There were some moments there that I thought I wouldn't be   
able to cope with her."  
  
"Well, ah, well," Giles pinched his lower lip with his fingers for a second, a   
gesture that she had often seen when the Watcher needed some time to collect and   
order his thoughts properly.  
  
"There's the possibility that her body has kept its Slayer abilities during her   
change, the same way that you kept yours when you... ah, gained your   
Immortality." The British man frowned for a second and shook his head, it was so   
weird to even voice the words... "Well, now that you mention it, that would   
explain some things."  
  
"What are you talking about?"  
  
Giles got up from his seat and began a nervous stroll, pacing around his living   
room, gesturing and speaking as the ideas and the theories formed in his mind.   
"I'm talking about the fact that there was no news about the activation of a new   
Slayer when Faith was turned into a vampire. Even when, for all intents and   
purposes, she'd been dead for a couple of days..."  
  
"... while Kendra was Called, even when I was just dead for a few minutes."   
Buffy finished his thought.  
  
"Exactly," he said, sitting down again in front of her and speaking more   
animatedly as the words came out of his mouth. "Neither was another one called   
when you suffered the death that activated your Immortality."   
  
Giles looked straight at his Slayer. "Remember what Xander told us? The first   
time you were dead enough to activate the new Slayer and fulfill the Master's   
prophecy, and the second you were even more dead, if such a thing is possible.   
And that time you became Immortal, but there was no activation of a new Slayer."  
  
Buffy made a face. "I'm twenty-one and I've already died twice," she shivered.   
"I think that should tell us something about the kind of life I'm having."  
  
Giles blinked repeatedly, adjusting his glasses. "Y-yes, uh, but the point I   
wanted to make is that, it-it seems that there can't be more than two Slayers   
activated at the same time."  
  
"And how does knowing that help us?"  
  
The Watcher shrugged. "Knowledge is never an impediment, and this offers new   
light on the process of the Calling of a Slayer. Maybe, and this is just an   
idea, the energy that animates a Slayer is finite, and there's not enough to   
maintain the powers of more than two at once. I wonder..."  
  
"Giles!" Buffy cut off his rambling. "That doesn't helps us right now – could we   
just get back to the matter at hand, please?"  
  
"Uh, oh, y-yes, of course." He took a short moment to look carefully at his   
protégé, and saw the unmistakable traces of worry in her eyes. "There's   
something more, isn't there?" Giles asked her gently.  
  
Buffy frowned, her eyes suddenly captivated by the mug in her hands. "I had some   
contradictory feelings last night."  
  
"Such as?"  
  
The blonde Slayer sighed, passing a tired hand through her hair. "What Faith   
told us about still having her soul – I don't understand it. I mean, if she's   
got it back, how is it she behaves so much like a..." she made an expression, as   
if asking him for help to finish her sentence.  
  
"A nutcase?" he offered.  
  
The Slayer blinked in surprise. "Well, I was expecting a more technical word   
from you... but yeah, a nutcase is right. She's gone completely psycho."  
  
"Buffy," Giles said with a sigh, adjusting his spectacles, "I think it's time   
for you to begin accepting the fact that, not everything in life is just black   
or white. There's a thousand different shades of gray out there."  
  
"I know that, Giles," the Slayer protested with an annoyed grunt. "I'm not a   
baby."  
  
Giles arched his brow. "And I'm not trying to suggest that, Buffy. You know I   
trust completely not only in, in your abilities, but in your judgement as well.   
But I'm afraid that there are some things, some facts that you... a-are not   
ready to accept."  
  
The young woman blinked at him in surprise. "Now is when I'm not completely   
following you."  
  
He shook his head, and massaged the bridge of his nose. "I think that not even I   
am following myself," he grunted. "What I mean is, that not everything i-is what   
it seems."  
  
"Some things are," Buffy stated with a small frown.  
  
"But most things are much more that what meets the eye. Not everybody who has a   
soul is a nice person," he shook his head, "although it seems that the other way   
around used to be true."  
  
"So Faith is helpless, is that what you mean?" the Slayer asked with a sad look.   
"We can't do anything for her, apart from dusting her?"  
  
"Some people would say that it would be... the most merciful thing to do. Giving   
her a final rest."  
  
Buffy raised an eyebrow, and snorted with sarcasm. "Well, those people don't   
know squat of how it is to be a Slayer."   
  
She sighed, hiding her face between her slender hands for a moment. "This is so   
not fair."  
  
Letting out a long breath, Giles took off his glasses and leaned back in his   
chair, adopting a more comfortable position and examining her through   
half-closed eyes. "I'm not sure if this is best moment to tell you this, but I-I   
think that you have the right to know."  
  
Buffy waited for a few dramatic moments, holding her breath and expecting with   
dread Giles' next words. "I think that something's going on with Xander and his   
friends."  
  
Buffy stared blankly at him. "And that's all? Giles, this is Sunnydale," she   
explained to him as if he was a slow-learning kid, "there's always something   
going on with somebody!"  
  
The Watcher sent her an irritated look. "I mean something serious, and that it   
could be quite, uh, unsettling."  
  
"Explain it to me," Buffy asked him, her dread returning to her like an   
unwelcome visitor to her stomach.  
  
Giles passed a hand though his messed-up graying hair, recollecting his   
thoughts. "Well, there's this demon..." he began.  
  
Buffy just groaned with deep sarcasm. "Oh, major surprise. A demon. On the   
Hellmouth. Go figure."  
  
"Could I continue, please?" the Watcher asked her politely.  
  
Buffy offered him a small smile. "Just out of curiosity, what kind of demon is   
this guy? One that eats people? One that eats certain parts of people? Or is it   
one that calls you at ungodly hours of the night, making you get up from bed to   
answer the phone and then he just laughs and hangs up? What?"  
  
Giles looked at her with a blank expression. "One that destroys the world," he   
stated, deadpan.  
  
"Oh!" Buffy exclaimed, feeling suddenly ashamed. "That kind."  
  
"To be exact," Giles explained, "Ezrain, that's its name, is a demon of the   
fifth circle of Hell, quite a powerful one indeed. It – or rather she – was   
deified by some obscure tribes of the Middle East during the Golgorah   
reunification, after Alexander the Great's death, as their goddess of war. It   
would be interesting to make a study on how many of these tribes actually   
recollected ancient beliefs, and adapted them to their own..."  
  
At Giles' sudden tangential escapade, Buffy let her head fall dramatically to   
her shoulder and began snoring soundly. Giles just looked at her in silent   
reproach, before getting back to the story.  
  
"Mmm, the case is that the wizards of these tribes had a ritual that, carried   
out at a precise moment, during an extremely uncommon star alignment, would open   
a portal what would allow to Ezrain to, ah, pass into our plane of existence.   
And, adopting a human form, possessing it, thus exist in our dimension."  
  
"And then destroy the world," Buffy concluded.  
  
"Well, quoting the books I've consulted: 'Ezrain would wreak havoc, spread   
disease, rid the world of the plague of humans and reign over the ashes of   
civilization for a whole millennium.'"  
  
"How nice on her part," the Slayer whispered with a tight smile. "Well, lemme   
see if I'm able to deduce the rest. A ton of years later, now, there are some   
guys who've had the bright idea to perform that ritual and bring this...   
Efraim..."  
  
"Ezrain," Giles corrected her absent-mindedly.  
  
"Whatever. They're going to summon this demon because they think that it'll   
protect them, and they'll live full, rich and happy lives while the rest of   
mankind goes down the toilet. Am I close enough?"  
  
"Quite," Giles admitted with a nod. "These people call themselves 'the   
Brotherhood of Ezrain, the unholy'."  
  
"Nice and catchy, although original not."  
  
"Yes, I don't think these people were interested in taking a class for   
marketing, although you never know," the Watcher chuckled, sharing a moment of   
amusement with his young protégé.  
  
"Mmm, where was I? Oh yes, the Brotherhood. Well, this particular star alignment   
only happens once every 700 years. And, the-the co-alignment of the different   
stars produces some changes in both the physical and spiritual parameters of the   
barrier that separates our dimension from that one we call Hell, and-"  
  
"And," Buffy interrupted him again, "the day is near. So near in fact, that   
we're barely going to have time to deal with it. Gosh, but this is so darn   
typical," she shook her head, not believing the irony. "When's it going down?"  
  
Giles grimaced. "Two days ago."  
  
For an endless second, they looked at each other in silence.  
  
"Two days ago?!?" the blonde Slayer exploded with a mix of surprise, anger and   
incredulity. She blinked repeatedly, and shook her head. "Well, now that's   
working under pressure."  
  
She sighed and hid her face between her hands, trying to think clearly. "Wait,   
wait a minute," she said, looking at her Watcher with suspicion. "I guess that   
it's pretty obvious, that they didn't succeed in this major suckfest plan of   
theirs."  
  
Giles nodded. "Otherwise we would either be dead right now, or probably pledging   
eternal loyalty to a thing emerged from the depths of Hell."  
  
"And two days ago was Sunday." Very slowly, Buffy let a long smile cross her   
face. A smile that, nevertheless, wasn't shared by her Watcher. "And this is   
where Xander and the guys enter into the equation, huh? Last Sunday they went to   
Los Angeles 'to save the world'."  
  
She shook her head, and let out an amused laugh. "And I thought it was a figure   
of speech."  
  
"Well, no, it seems that 'saving the world' was indeed what they were doing,"   
Giles said, scratching his five o'clock shadow.  
  
"Then they actually had a good reason for missing the debut of Oz's band. But   
what I don't get is where you see the problem here, Giles. Shouldn't we be   
grateful to them for saving our collective butts?"  
  
Giles didn't answer her. Instead, he got up from his seat and, going to his   
desk, retrieved a thick file from its surface that he passed to the Slayer   
without uttering a word.  
  
"What is this?" Buffy asked, absent-mindedly opening the file and beginning to   
flip through its pages. "Who are these... people?"  
  
The voice seemed to die in Buffy's throat, becoming barely a whisper as the same   
time that all the blood drained from her face, leaving her as pale as a ghost.  
  
A few moments later, she closed the file with trembling hands and placed it   
carefully on the surface of Giles' small coffee table, as if it was some kind of   
dangerous snake beside the pretty tea ornaments of the Watcher. When she raised   
her hazel eyes back to him, they were wet with unshed tears.  
  
"Why?" she just asked.  
  
Giles shrugged sadly. "I think that that's a question that only Xander can   
answer."  
  
~~~~~~  
  
To be continued... 


	4. Part 4 of 8

DR2 - The Cross of Changes by Nick Midian, Book II, part 4 of 8   
  
Written by Nick Midian   
  
Content beta-reading and storyline suggestions by Duncan  
English grammar, spelling, slang, Highlander continuity and general corrections   
by Theo  
French slang, content beta-reading and storyline suggestions by Mash  
French slang by Alan  
  
  
EMAIL: jcaballero@euskalnet.net  
  
WEBSITE: http://www.angelfire.com/tv2/thedarkages  
  
SPOILERS: For Buffy the Vampire Slayer: 3rd season, BUT no Xander/Willow kissing   
and no Lover's Walk (welcome to the wonderful State of Denial, Land of   
'Shippiness). Hmmm, I've messed with the third season's timeline to accommodate   
it to my necessities. Let's just say that 'Band Candy' happened a lot later than   
it did, around the first days of February, OK?  
For Highlander: None really, the characters of the TV series and films are only   
tangentially mentioned. You just need to know the basics of Highlander-style   
immortality, BUT I've always thought that whole 'Immortals have no parents and   
are found in a little basket' is a... um, the Spanish word for it is 'chorrada',   
so let's just ignore it, OK?  
KEYWORDS: Romance, Angst, Action-adventure, Violence, Alternate Universe,   
Crossover.  
RATING: PG-13 with some mild R parts for violence and sexual innuendo.  
DISCLAIMER: This story has been written with no intention of profit, merely for   
the pleasure of writing and sharing it.  
The concept and characters of BTVS (Buffy, Angel, Cordelia, Xander, Willow, Oz,   
Giles, Joyce, Spike, Drusilla, Snyder, Faith, Harmony, Lyle Gorch, Quentin   
Travers and the rest) are intellectual and legal property of Joss Whedon, Warner   
Brothers, Mutant Enemy, etc. Also, the concept of Highlander and the characters   
mentioned here (Duncan MacLeod, Amanda Darieux, Richie Ryan, Joe Dawson and the   
Society of Watchers) are the property of Panzer-Davis and Rysher Entertainment.  
Michael Deveraux, Rachel Curran, Crystal Parker, Kyle White Owl, Robert   
Coltrane, Elvis the Dog, Broderick Egoyan, Damon Frost, Mr. Smith, the World   
Committee for Civil Defense and the rest are my own creation.  
All the songs and lyrics here are used without permission, they are copyright of   
their respective rights owners.  
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Please, understand that English is not my native language, so   
any grammatical or spelling errors are my fault, not of any one of my wonderful   
beta-readers. If you're thinking of sending any flames, please be kind with me.   
I'm a grown man, but I still can cry like a child, believe me.  
Additional Author's Note: The songs performed by Oz's band are 'Loli Jackson'   
and 'Serenade' by Dover. It appears courtesy of Subterfuge records. All rights   
reserved, yadda, yadda, yadda...   
SUMMARY: After the events in 'Dark Reflection' a new threat menaces both the   
Slayerettes and the Archangels as new and old enemies come to Sunnydale, merging   
past and present. This time, it's something personal - ta-da-da-dam!!! (sorry,   
but I just had to say that)  
  
And now, on with the show. Fasten your seat belts ladies and gentlemen, because   
it's going to be a long, hard and jumpy ride...   
  
~~~~~~  
  
The cast for Book II  
  
  
Nicholas Brendon as Xander Harris  
Charisma Carpenter as Cordelia Chase  
  
Sarah Michelle Gellar as Buffy Summers  
David Boreanaz as Angel  
Alyson Hannigan as Willow Rosenberg  
Seth Green as Daniel 'Oz' Osborne  
Anthony Stewart Head as Rupert Giles  
Kristine Sutherland as Joyce Summers  
  
Matthew Perry as Michael Deveraux  
Paula Trickey as Rachel Curran  
James Marsters as Spike  
Nikki Cox as Crystal Parker  
David James Elliott as Kyle White Owl  
Elvis the Dog as Himself  
  
Eliza Dushku as Faith Adams  
Donald Sutherland as The Old Chess Player, Broderick Egoyan  
Sebastian Spence as Damon Frost  
Avery Brooks as Mr. Smith  
  
Mercedes MacNab as Harmony Kendall  
Armin Shimerman as Principal Snyder  
Amy Chance as Aphrodesia  
Persia White as Aura  
  
Alan Rickman as Conrad Swann  
Wesley Snipes as Talon Pantera  
Dennis Rodman as Rush Pantera  
Tom Berenger as Colonel Cabbot Ashe  
Michael Ironside as the Sergeant  
Trevor Goddard as Backlash  
Shaquille O'Neal as Beast  
Jet Li as Bushido  
  
with  
  
Kevin Spacey as Robert Coltrane  
Nicholas Lea as Jonah Whalls  
and  
Catherine Zeta-Jones as the Lady in Red  
  
~~~~~~  
  
The first thing that Faith thought at seeing the people gathered inside the huge   
and gloomy library, was that they had to be the weirdest and most colorful group   
she had ever met.  
  
The first one that captured her attention was the same young man that had   
accompanied Mr. Smith last night during her abduction, the one that had shot her   
with a tranquilizer gun. The one with the crooked smile, and incredible piercing   
black eyes.  
  
The young sandy-haired man, who was sitting on a huge armchair with his legs   
nonchalantly crossed, turned around slightly when he heard them coming into the   
library, and offered a twisted and leery smile to the former Slayer.  
  
=Nice,= she thought, =good enough for a couple of hours of fun in the sack.=  
  
With the tight black jeans he was wearing and his white turtleneck, he looked a   
very tasty dish. Nevertheless, what she found the most surprising was the dark   
ebony Catholic rosary he was playing with, making it spin and roll around his   
index finger.  
  
In front of him, seated on another seat that was a twin of the sandy-haired   
young man, there was another man. He was older, seemingly in his early fifties;   
and much more distinguished than his younger counterpart, wearing an elegant and   
expensive-looking black suit of British style.  
  
This man, with light brown hair graying at his temples, had only one blue eye on   
his face: his left one. His right one was covered by a black leather eye-patch   
that wasn't big enough to hide the long and wide scar that crossed his otherwise   
handsome face from the brim of his hair down to his chin.  
  
The man looked at her coolly with his one eye, sipping delicately from a   
porcelain cup of tea.  
  
Standing by the huge fireplace that was lit even though it was quite early in   
the morning, and was the only source of light in the room, there was a third   
man. He also seemed to be in his fifties, but that had a much more rough-looking   
than the one-eyed man.  
  
He was wearing a cheap gray suit that seemed completely out of place on him   
because, with the way that he held himself – firm, back straight as a board and   
a severe expression – Faith thought that it would be more fitting for him to be   
wearing a military uniform.  
  
Nevertheless, no matter how strange these three men looked, they couldn't hold a   
candle against the other two occupants of the huge library. The two young black   
men had to be the some of most extravagant and weird people she'd had the chance   
to meet, especially the taller one.  
  
He was very tall, more so even than Mr. Smith, although his body was thinner and   
less overtly muscular. The tall guy was wearing a striking and clashing outfit,   
that seemed to be a mix between a fluorescent orange jumpsuit without sleeves   
and a black leather vest, and his naked arms had almost each square inch of skin   
covered by some kind of elaborate tattoo.  
  
His face, that had a twisted expression that was a mix of amusement and disgust,   
had enough piercings to make the metal detector of an airport think that he was   
a walking armory. At first glance, Faith was able to count at least seven rings   
on his ears, eyebrows and nose.  
  
Still, the most striking thing about him was his freaky hair. Although it was   
cut short, it was dyed in a complicated pattern that included a screaming   
version of all the colors of the rainbow. Green turquoise, indigo blue, lemon   
yellow... she even caught some glimpses of light pink.  
  
His companion, who sat beside him in a tall chair identical to the one of the   
tall freak, was way shorter than him, but all that he lacked in height was   
compensated for by his much broader shoulders and bulging muscles.  
  
That, and the hard expression of his face made him look like a walking machine   
of destruction.  
  
His hair, although natural in its color, was shaved at the sides of his head.   
And the chocolate-brown skin was covered by an intricate web of black tattoos,   
which resembled the ritual ones of a Maori warrior that disappeared under the   
collar of his leather jacket.  
  
The two men looked as one to her when she entered in the room following Egoyan's   
wheelchair, but their expressions were as unreadable as the moa statues of   
Easter Island.  
  
"Lady and gentlemen," the old crippled man said while he wheeled himself to the   
middle of the irregular circle formed by the men, where a chessboard had been   
placed on a tall pedestal. Faith thought that there was something strange about   
the little figures on it, but she wasn't close enough to fully appreciate them.  
  
"First and foremost, let me give all of you my warmest welcome to my home and   
express to you how... thankful I am for you being here. I know that some of you   
have had to abandon other pursuits to be here."  
  
Egoyan stopped by the chess board and took a long and slow look at the small   
figures on its surface, losing himself as if they had a mesmerizing quality that   
was lost to the rest of those present. Then, as if he was coming out of a   
trance, the old man softly shook his head and offered a twisted smile to his   
'guests'.  
  
"My name is Broderick Egoyan," he told them, "some of you know me just from a   
few moments acquaintance; but with others, instead, I've shared long years of   
mutual collaboration and knowledge." Here, he directed a small nod towards the   
distinguished one-eyed man, that was returned with the same measure.  
  
"But I'm afraid that few of you know each other, so I'll play my role as your   
host and introduce you to one another."  
  
"First of all," he continued, rolling away from the chessboard and making a soft   
wave towards Faith, "gentlemen, I would like you to meet Miss Faith Adams, the   
vampire Slayer."  
  
"No more she truly is," the shorter and leather-clad black man said with a voice   
that sounded like the hiss of a feline, "vampire she is now. Can smell her."  
  
"Yeah," the sandy-haired young man muttered, looking at her sideways with a   
lustful expression, "D.B.W. Dead Babe Walking."  
  
"I can assure you that you don't have anything to fear from Miss Faith; she will   
behave, won't you my dear?"  
  
Sitting down on a big and comfy seat, almost making a show out of it, Faith   
crossed her long legs and smiled charmingly. "I don't promise anything."  
  
Shaking his head, Egoyan allowed a new vulture-like smile to cross his thin   
lips. "You also know my aide-de-camp, Mr. Smith." The huge black man made a soft   
nod as a salute, before retreating back to the dark spot he had taken as a   
refuge.  
  
"And the gentleman with the quirky sense of humor is Mr. Damon Frost," he   
introduced the sandy-haired man, who just waved at the rest with that twisted   
smile on his lips.  
  
"And the two gentlemen over there," the old man made a short sign towards the   
two black men, "are the Pantera brothers, Talon and-"  
  
"Pumba?" Faith ventured, with an innocent sweet smile.  
  
The joke seemed to pass over everybody's head except Damon's, who just snorted,   
hiding his laughter behind his fist.  
  
"Rush," the tall freak corrected her with a voice that sounded like his   
brother's, only a little more high-pitched. "Me called Rush."  
  
"If you've finished," Egoyan gently continued, regaining their attention, "the   
man beside the fireplace is Mr. Cabbot Ashe."  
  
"Colonel Ashe," the man sternly corrected him.  
  
"You have my apologies, Colonel," the old man offered a slightly annoyed smile   
and the man just raised a cool eyebrow, crossing his hands behind his back and   
making his chest stand out like a proud soldier.  
  
"And last but not least, Mr. Conrad Swann," Egoyan finished, nodding at the   
one-eyed man.  
  
"Great," Faith said, resting her arms on the back of her seat, "now that we know   
each other, could you tell us why we're here? Or am I the only one who's been   
left in the dark?"  
  
"That would be a nice idea, Broderick," the man called Swann spoke for the first   
time. "I'm still wondering why you called me and, frankly, my businesses require   
a time that I can't afford to waste on... games. No matter how beautiful and   
charming the players are," he finished with a slight nod of appreciation towards   
Faith.  
  
The former Slayer just raised an eyebrow. She was beginning to get tired of   
being treated like an airheaded girl, with nice tits and a shapely little ass.  
  
If the things didn't begin to get more interesting soon, she would start   
breaking necks and ripping out hearts. Maybe some of these guys would be useful   
if she turned them.  
  
Egoyan's voice brought her out of her reverie. "How's your eye, Conrad?" he   
asked the distinguished man, who immediately glared at the crippled old man with   
his only working eye.  
  
"Does it still weep if you let the air touch it? Do you still hurt when it's   
cold, so much so that you think that someone's stabbing your brain with an   
ice-pick?"  
  
With his only working eye half-closed and his lips clenched tightly, Swann   
caressed his eye-patch absent-mindedly, and everybody noticed the slight shaking   
of his fingers when he did so.  
  
"You know that it's so," he whispered raggedly.  
  
"And wouldn't you like to make the person who did that to you pay for it?   
Wouldn't you like to recover your most precious possession?" Egoyan smiled at   
him with a cruel grimace. "I know that you miss her, even more than what you   
miss that eye."  
  
"I do," Swann admitted with his ragged voice. "I want her back."  
  
"Each one of us here wants something," he said, wheeling himself away from the   
one-eyed man and taking a good look at each of the people present.  
  
"And that something is the reason why we are here today. Our greed is what we   
have in common. For some of us, like Colonel Ashe, that something is just money;   
a simple exchange in which he offers me his services and that of his mercenary   
team, and receives back an astronomical amount of cash."  
  
He continued, "For others, that something is more personal, more... twisted. My   
friend Conrad here wants to recover something that was stolen from him, and make   
the people who did such a thing pay for it. Mr. Frost has a family debt to pay,   
and the Pantera brothers want payback too; in their case, they want to destroy a   
man that killed somebody who was very dear to them."  
  
"He must die," the black man called Talon growled viciously. "Same way we   
suffered, he will suffer. Honor and blood demands it."  
  
Egoyan shrugged with disinterest. "If you ask me, revenge is a waste of time, a   
vicious circle in which you can only lose time and effort, Mr. Talon. But," he   
continued before Talon or his brother had the chance to protest, "it's not my   
business. What matters to me, is that we can help each other to attain our   
respective goals; if you help me to get what I want, I will help you to get what   
you want. Money, revenge..." His cold gaze settled on Faith, "...your heart's   
desire."  
  
"And what is it you want?" Damon asked, never stopping his restless play with   
his rosary. "What is so precious to you that you've run the risk of gathering us   
here? Where run is a figure of speech, of course."  
  
The old man's grim expression left no doubts of his seriousness. "I'm a very   
rich man, Mr. Frost, some people would even say that I'm awfully rich. And what   
I want is the one thing that my money, that my wealth, no matter how large it   
is, can't get me. The only thing I can't afford."  
  
"Which is?" Faith asked, all her sarcasm lost at the man's mesmerizing tone.  
  
He looked at her, smiled and, just for a second, looked almost human. "Time, my   
dear. Time." Sighing like a broken flute, the old man wheeled himself away.  
  
"I want you all to understand something; I have enough money to buy this nation,   
this continent, maybe this entire world if I wanted to. And to gain this   
incredible wealth, I've had to spend my whole life working very hard. A long   
life it's been, too."  
  
He said with a slight grimace, "Now, I don't think that any of you can   
understand this – some of you are too young to even think of how your life will   
be when you grow old and weak. And some others," he sent a brief and meaningful   
look towards Faith, "won't ever have that problem. But I do, and every passing   
day is just a delay in my death-sentence."  
  
"Humans die," Talon stated, deadpan. "Everything dies. Way of nature that is."  
  
"Not if I can help it," the old man growled with disdain. Pausing, he stared at   
Talon.  
  
"Broderick Egoyan," he continued, accentuating each word with a soft knock on   
the armrest of his wheelchair, "will not be defeated by something as feeble as   
nature. And that's what I want, that's the thing you're going to help me to get.   
You're going to help me to regain that time I've lost."  
  
He took a long and slow look at them, making the chair spin around. "You're   
going to give me Eternity."  
  
~~~~~~  
  
"I feel like something that the cat spat out," Kyle mumbled before taking a   
greedy and blind sip from his mug and grimacing at the taste.  
  
"Holy cow," he grunted, making an effort not to spit out the mouthful, "what is   
this... thing?"  
  
Beside him, Crystal raised a cool eyebrow while sipping from her own mug.   
"Herbal tea, it's good for you."  
  
"In the name of my gods and ancestors, Cris," the tall Texan growled, rolling   
his bright blue eyes and getting off his chair to change the contests of his mug   
for a good dose of black coffee, "this is like poison to my system. Do you wanna   
kill me or something?"  
  
The red-haired witch's expression didn't falter, and she just looked at him with   
her cool jade-green eyes when the tall man sat back in front of her and drank   
his coffee. "I'm just worried about your health. All that caffeine, all that red   
meat and fat you eat can't be good for you. I can see it in your aura," she said   
making a soft wave around his head, as if she was picking invisible things from   
it.  
  
She continued, "By the Goddess, it looks like it could use a good cleansing. I   
just don't get it, Kyle. You were trained as a shaman, you know more about   
spiritual ways than most of the people I've ever met – why don't you try to be a   
little more..."  
  
"Spiritual?" he guessed, his attention more focused on fixing himself a huge   
salami sandwich.  
  
"Yeah, something along those lines."  
  
Kyle shrugged, removing importance to the matter. "I don't know, it's never   
really been my style. When I was a kid at the reservation, all I really wanted   
to do was go out and see the world. I trained in the old shaman ways to please   
my grandfather who, as you may know, was the one who raised me. Then I got my   
scholarship to MIT and I thought that it was my chance, but something happened   
and..."  
  
The red-haired witch looked at her friend with worry, seeing with surprise the   
flash of sudden sadness that flashed across his usually bright features.   
Something did a flip-flop inside her, a feeling so unexpected and so unusual in   
her that she almost wasn't able to identify it.  
  
"What happened?" she gently inquired, placing a comforting hand on his much   
larger one.  
  
For a second, Kyle looked at the small and fair-skinned hand of the witch on his   
slightly tanned and callused one. With amazement, and feeling his heart beating   
a little faster, the tall Texan let his fingers entwine around her slenderer   
ones.  
  
"It doesn't matter," he whispered, captivated by the image of their hands linked   
together. "It's in the past now, and it was a long time ago."  
  
He raised his eyes to hers and managed a weak, almost shy smile. "Mmm, ah, I was   
thinking that you and I never really do anything together, alone, I mean. And I   
was wondering, if you don't have any plans, we could... wha-what?!?" he asked   
with surprise when she let go of his hand and leaned back in her chair, looking   
at him through half-closed eyes. "Is it, uh, something I've said?"  
  
"I just can't believe you," Crystal shook her head with incredulity, "we were   
having a moment, and you have to come out with this."  
  
Kyle blinked in confusion. "This?"  
  
"Yes!" For the first time in the few years he had known her, Kyle White Owl saw   
Crystal Parker express something that was closely resembling anger. She had a   
slight blush covering her milky-white cheeks, and her jade-green eyes blazed   
bright and shiny.  
  
He weakly thought that he had never seen her look so beautiful. "This crap, this   
joke! 'Ooh, we could be alone, baby,'" she mimicked him in an acceptable   
impersonation, "we could have some fun together between the sheets.'"  
  
She finally rose up from the table, sending him an angry look. "When are you   
going to grow up, Kyle?"  
  
He watched her retreating back as she disappeared in the general direction of   
her private room, and then leaned his forehead on the surface of the table.  
  
"Asshole," he muttered, slowly banging his head on it, "I'm a complete, total   
and absolute asshole."  
  
"I couldn't 'ave put it more accurately meself, Cowboy," a voice with a deep   
British accent and dripping twisted sarcasm told him.  
  
Raising his head slightly, Kyle took a look at Spike as he crossed the kitchen   
and, opening the fridge, took a can of beer from it. "Great, just what I needed,   
Mr. 'I've been wearing the same clothes for the last fifty years'. Why don't you   
go and take a walk in the sun, Spike? Leave me alone with my misery."  
  
The bleached-hair vampire chuckled, letting himself fall onto a chair in front   
of the tall Texan. "Nah, it's just sooo funny to see you squirmin', Cowboy. How   
could I miss the chance to do this?"  
  
Kyle just sent a hostile look towards him.  
  
"Anyway," Spike continued with a wide smile, "did I miss anything interestin'   
last night or what?"  
  
The tall Texan's expression changed from amused hostility to somber worry in a   
heartbeat. "Yeah, you could say so."  
  
~~~~~~  
  
The door of Xander's room opened wide violently, and the young dark-haired   
vampire raised his eyes with surprise from the task that had been holding his   
attention; the almost ritual sharpening and cleansing of his sword.  
  
In front of him, right under the door's frame, there was a fuming and quite   
unsettled Spike.  
  
"Are you bloody nuts or what!?!" he practically screamed, shaking his clenched   
fists.  
  
"Good morning to you too, Spike," Xander calmly greeted him with a slightly   
amused expression. "Nice to see you, did you have a good time with Willow last   
night?"  
  
"That's none of your business," he said, a little more quickly than what both of   
them expected and, walking into his blood-brother's room, slammed the door   
behind him violently.  
  
"I thought you said you'd call me if somethin' went wrong, mate, and I've 'ad to   
learn about what 'appened last night through the damn Cowboy. What you were   
thinkin' about? Were you suicidal, or what?"  
  
Xander, who was kneeling down at the foot of his bed, sighed and returned to his   
task, carefully sliding a sharpening stone along the edge of his katana. "You   
wouldn't understand it."  
  
"Oh, I wouldn't?" he asked with deep sarcasm. "Trust me on this, brother, if   
there's one vampire who knows about wantin' to rip his sire's head off, that's   
me."  
  
Xander sent to him a brief look from under his dark eyebrows, but said nothing   
at all. Spike shook his head in a mix of anger and amusement, and let himself   
fall onto the only chair in the room, carefully avoiding the thin rays of sun   
that entered through the venetian blinds.  
  
He took a look at the naked walls and spartan furniture, and snorted. "When are   
you gonna decorate in 'ere?" he inquired. "This place is so borin', that it's   
like Angelus who's livin' 'ere instead o' you."  
  
The younger vampire shrugged with disinterest. "I have better things to think   
about."  
  
"Yeah, like suicide, for example? Lemme guess, you're gonna go face Faith when   
ya learn where she is, ain't you? Wow, that's a great plan, Xander. Way to go,   
boy."  
  
Ignoring his sarcasm, Xander checked the edge of the blade with his thumb,   
seeing that it was so sharp that it almost cut him to the bone just with the   
merest touch.  
  
With absolute fascination, he observed the thin drop of blood that flowed from   
the wound to the palm of his hand and the small arch of blue electricity that   
ran over it, closing the cut as if it had never been there. Then he licked his   
blood, closing his eyes.  
  
"You're too emotionally involved in this, Xander," Spike told him softly, "you   
should step aside and let the rest of us do this for ya."  
  
The look that Xander sent him could have burnt an iceberg. "This is my fight,   
not yours."  
  
Spike shook his head in denial. "You made it mine when you decided to be my   
friend and let me be yours, mate. You're not ready to kill 'er, I can almost   
smell it."  
  
"I will be when the time comes," Xander said stubbornly, making the   
bleached-hair vampire sigh as he let his head fall backwards.  
  
"I swear to you that I dunno how it is that I've ended up with you, mate.   
Sometimes I wonder what I was thinkin' about, when I decided to save your asses   
back in Seattle."  
  
Xander frowned slightly and with heartfelt amusement. "You saved us? It's   
curious, but I don't remember it that way."  
  
"Oh, no?" Spike stated with incredulity. "Let's see... it was you who was naked   
and helpless on the floor of that warehouse..."  
  
"Semi-naked," Xander corrected him, "where semi is the key word."  
  
"Whatever," the bleached-hair vampire shrugged, "it was you who had those   
strange purple things tyin' you up, and it was me who entered through the   
skylight in the roof and saved the bloody day."  
  
"Yeah," Xander chuckled, shaking his head, "there's two things I've never   
understood about that."  
  
"Which ones?"  
  
"Why did you help us?" he asked gently, almost in a whisper. "Why didn't you   
just go away when you had the chance?"  
  
The bleached-hair vampire shrugged. "If I 'ad the answer to that question, I   
think that a lotta things would be easier in my life." They stood in silence for   
a few seconds, until Spike broke it with a small frown. "And the second one?"  
  
Xander smiled widely. "Who the hell taught you to yell exactly like Tarzan?"  
  
The two vampires burst out in laughter, that grew until there were red tears   
rolling down their cheeks and Xander was practically rolling on the floor,   
holding his gut.  
  
The door of the room opened and Kyle stuck his head into the semi-darkness,   
raising an eyebrow at seeing the vampires in the middle of what looked like an   
attack of hysterical laughter.  
  
"I'm sorry to interrupt such a, uh, weird scene, but you have a call, Xander."  
  
"Unless it's Cordy, tell whoever it is that I'll call him later," Xander said   
with a wave of dismissal, shaking his head with amusement. "And bring a couple   
of beers on your way back, Kyle. Join us, we're remembering old times."  
  
Kyle grimaced, almost painfully. "Although it sounds appealing, I think I'll   
pass. And you should take that call, Xand," he added, sounding suddenly too   
serious and pointing upwards with his thumb, "it's the big boss."  
  
Rolling his eyes and grunting, Xander got up from the floor and sighed. "What   
the hell could they want now?"  
  
"Knowin' them," Spike shrugged, "anything. Wanna bet?"  
  
"Five bucks says big, green, nasty thing menacing the world," Kyle said,   
searching inside the pockets of his jeans. "Uh, could anyone lend me five   
bucks?"  
  
Shaking his head in amusement at his friends' behavior, Xander went out of the   
room and began to walk to the laboratory, where the secured telephone lines were   
installed, noticing that Kyle quickly hurried his pace, following him.  
  
"Something else, Mr. White Owl?" the young vampire inquired.  
  
"I've finished the analysis of the traces we found yesterday," he informed   
Xander with an all-business tone.  
  
"The small glass fragments?" Xander sighed, not really knowing if he wanted to   
go into that matter right then. "What do you have?"  
  
He shrugged. "Not much, the fragments were too small for a complete trace. A   
huge sedan, probably a Ford or a Lincoln of a recent model, no more than two   
years old."  
  
"Anything from the police?"  
  
"Nope," he shook his head. "I've hacked into their database, but nobody's made a   
report about the loss or theft of a car with that description. But it's still   
too soon, so..."  
  
"Something else?" Xander asked, taking the phone.  
  
"Xander, the blood..." the tall Texan looked at him warily. Covering the phone   
with the palm of his hand, Xander motioned to him in silence. "... it was   
Faith's, there's no doubt about that."  
  
Xander took a long and deep breath, and closed his brown eyes for a second.   
"Thanks, Kyle," he finally said, going back to the phone.  
  
The tall Texan nodded and squeezed his friend and leader's shoulder, giving him   
a soft pat on the back. "I've still got a couple of tests to run, call me if you   
need anything, OK?"  
  
Xander just nodded and smiled softly at him, bringing the phone to his lips.   
"It's me," he simply said.  
  
"That's good, Xander," a very-well known voice said, from the other end of the   
line. "It's also me here."  
  
The young vampire chuckled softly, and leaned on the tall counter of the small   
laboratory. "What can I do for you today, Robert?" he asked with a smile to his   
superior.  
  
"The truth is, today it's something that I can do for you," the older man told   
him and Xander frowned slightly; noticing that, in spite of the usual humor that   
his voice carried, there was a note of tension in his tone. "We have to meet   
ASAP."  
  
"This is not exactly a good time, I'm having some..." for a second, the young   
vampire thought on lying to him, but he quickly shrugged that idea away. Robert   
Coltrane was not only his boss, but a good friend and he didn't want to betray   
the deep trust he had placed in him.  
  
Nonetheless, maybe for that same reason, he couldn't completely explain to him   
what was going on. He didn't want to fail him. "Well, let's just say that I'm   
having some personal problems. Can't you tell it to me right now or postpone it   
for a couple of days?"  
  
"It's just too important to delay it," the older man told him with a deep tone,   
"and too personal to speak about it on the phone. We need to meet face to face."  
  
Sighing, Xander passed a hand over his tired expression and through his dark   
hair. "Alright, a rendezvous at the same place as always? The pier on Venice   
Beach?"  
  
"No," Robert said, taking Xander by surprise, "I'm in Sunnydale. There's a nice   
French restaurant on Main Street, do you know it?"  
  
The young vampire stood in silence for a couple of seconds, his face turned into   
an unreadable mask. "Yeah, Didier's Bistro."  
  
"Let's meet for lunch in a couple of hours, my treat," the older man suggested.  
  
"You're paying?" Xander snorted with light sarcasm. "It must be something really   
important."  
  
"See you later, Xander," the man told him goodbye. "And take care."  
  
"Same here, Robert," Xander whispered, before he heard the line going dead in   
his ear. Then, for a few moments, he remained in silence, thinking at top speed   
and absent-mindedly tapping his chin with the telephone.  
  
"Kyle?" he finally called the tall Texan, who was not far away, running the   
tests he had told him about.  
  
"Yeah?" he absent-mindedly answered, his eye glued to the visor of a potent   
electronic microscope.  
  
"I'm going out for a while," Xander told him, gently putting the phone on its   
cradle. "I need a couple of things."  
  
Finally, Kyle raised his eyes from his task and looked at him with half-closed   
eyes and a curious expression. "Sure, what do you need?"  
  
"A car," Xander told him, his eyes turned into darker and harder versions of   
themselves, "and a gun."  
  
~~~~~~  
  
Xander parked Spike's Chevy Monte Carlo a couple of streets away from the   
restaurant and, before going out, reached to the small of his back and took out   
the pistol that Kyle had given him from the warehouse's ample armory.  
  
Carefully making the slide chamber of the semi-automatic go back half an inch,   
the young vampire checked there was a round already loaded in the Heckler und   
Koch USP Compact and then engaged the safety, returning the gun to its holster.  
  
Taking a deep breath, Xander checked on his appearance in the rear-view mirror   
of the car and frowned with worry. There was something here that wasn't feeling   
right.  
  
Even when the organization's rules establishing the relationships between the   
field teams and their respective supervisors were kinda hazy, he, as the leader   
of the Archangels, and Robert had developed a sort of schedule for their   
irregular meetings and reports.  
  
Thus, it was very strange that the older man would have traveled all the way   
from headquarters to California without notifying him beforehand. And the mere   
fact that he was in Sunnydale, was definitely weird.  
  
It was against all the rules, against everything that he had been taught was the   
right procedure. It was stupid, dangerous and a serious threat to the internal   
security of the organization.  
  
So, to be perfectly honest, Xander was freaking about it.  
  
Getting out of the blue and slightly tattered car, the young vampire took a   
careful look at his surroundings, his trained and sharp eyes searching for any   
possible trace of vigilance or suspicious behavior. It could seem paranoid on   
his part, but he knew that sometimes it was only paranoia that kept one alive.  
  
He had taken on the decision of swimming in shark-infested waters, and he knew   
that the only way to survive was to have eyes in the back of your head and a   
mouth with sharper teeth than the ones of your enemies.  
  
He finally arrived at the restaurant, one of the most expensive and exclusive in   
the town; then he carefully smoothed the nonexistent wrinkles in his elegant   
silk tie, and arranged the jacket of his equally elegant and really   
expensive-looking brown suit.  
  
He wasn't used to wearing these kind of clothes – they were more Michael's   
style, and he felt the tie around his neck was tight enough to suffocate him;   
but if there was one thing he had learned, it was that sometimes it was better   
to pass unnoticed in the crowd.  
  
"I have a reservation for one Robert Coltrane," he told the maitre'd, his brown   
eyes more interested in scanning the interior of the restaurant in search for   
both his boss and friend, and for any possible menace other than this man with   
the cheap tuxedo.  
  
"I'm sorry, m'sieur," the man said with a horribly fake French accent, "there is   
no reservation under such name."  
  
Xander rolled his eyes. "Try Alexander Harris."  
  
"Très bien," the maitre'd said, running through his list of names with the point   
of his index finger. "Effectivement, Alexander Harris, lunch for two. If you   
follow me, m'sieur."  
  
The young vampire followed the man in the tuxedo between the tables, walking   
with the sureness and automatic confidence of someone related to the most   
wealthy and distinguished side of society.  
  
Quite a number of feminine faces, and some male ones, turned around to follow   
his movements and he couldn't help but return some of the smiles and looks with   
the crooked and slow rise of one of the corners of his mouth. At one point, he   
even thought that someone had sighed at seeing him passing by.  
  
It felt like being James Bond, only a little better.  
  
But any fun he was having went out the window in the next few seconds, when he   
finally spotted Robert at one of the most secluded and reserved tables, in a   
corner almost at the end of the restaurant, with a dish of food already in front   
of him.  
  
It wasn't seeing his friend that made Xander lose his smile, neither was it the   
fact that he sat with the two walls at his back so he could see who was coming;   
all that was usual for him.  
  
What worried him were the two men sitting a couple of tables away from him. The   
cheap gray suits stood out like sore thumbs in the general ambience of elegance   
of the restaurant, as did the way they tried to look at him without being   
noticed, and the unmistakable bulk of concealed weapons under their jackets.  
  
And if that wasn't enough, his sharp vampire senses immediately brought to him   
the sound of their heartbeats, which speeded up the second they saw him, and the   
pungent smell of the sweat breaking out on their skins.  
  
They were nervous.  
  
"Xander!" Robert greeted him with a wide smile, getting up from his chair to hug   
him. "Hey! Where has all the black and the leather gone to? Are you going for a   
new look?"  
  
The young vampire returned the hug halfheartedly and offered a tight smile to   
the older man, accepting the chair he offered him and sitting down in front of   
him. "You know what they say, Robert, 'when in Rome...'"  
  
The middle-aged man smiled at him widely and retrieved his fork, picking at the   
food on his dish. "Something's wrong with the food?" Xander inquired with a   
risen eyebrow, crossing his legs and tilting his head to one side.  
  
"I don't know why I chose this place, we should have met at a McDonald's." The   
middle-aged man shook his head. "French cuisine is a load of crap," he stated   
loud enough for some heads to turn and look at him with offended stares, that   
were just ignored by the two men.  
  
"If Michael ever heard you saying something like that," Xander told him with a   
smile, "he'd cook you and serve you to Spike for dinner."  
  
"Look at this, for God's shake," Robert continued, picking at his food. "Steamed   
spinach? It looks like something my dog sneezed out, it tastes even worse than   
it looks, and the helpings are so small..."  
  
Xander smiled at him with a twisted grin. "Why don't you call your guys over   
there and tell them to bring us a couple of hamburgers?"  
  
Robert placed his fork on the table and smiled at him, shaking his head. Xander   
looked at the two men over his shoulder and waved at them playfully, making them   
groan with a mix of incredulity and shame. "I'm sure that they'll be glad to   
help us."  
  
"They are good, aren't they?" Robert chuckled, still shaking his head in   
amazement.  
  
"They stink to CIA," Xander snorted. "Please, tell me that they're with you."  
  
The older man nodded sheepishly. "I'm afraid so, I'm not fool enough to come to   
the Hellmouth without somebody covering my back."  
  
"Oh, come on," the young vampire protested, "I know we have all this bad press,   
but Sunnydale really is a nice place to live."  
  
"Yes, if you're a bloodsucking creature of the night," Robert snorted with   
sarcasm.  
  
"On behalf of my species: hey! Anyway," he continued, accepting the menu that   
the waiter offered him and absent-mindedly running over its contents with his   
eyes, "why don't you explain to me what's so important that it's brought you   
here all the way from Virginia, and a couple of bodyguards from Langley – which,   
I'm guessing, are both completely outside of official channels? What's up,   
Robert?"  
  
"Order first," the middle-aged man told him with a mischievous look in his eyes,   
"I want to see you dwelling on this."  
  
Raising an eyebrow and smiling smugly, Xander summoned a waiter. He then   
returned the menu to the man and said, "Je commencerai par une soupe de légumes,   
puis un foie aux oignons. Accompagné d'une bouteille de Chateau Seauvignon, s'il   
vous plait."  
  
"Rouge ou blanc?" the waiter inquired, taking note of Xander's request.  
  
The young vampire looked at him as if he was retarded. "Rouge, bien sur."  
  
"Immediatément," the waiter nodded sharply and went away with Xander's order.   
  
"And you just did all that, how?" Robert asked in amazement.  
  
The young vampire shrugged. "You can't live with a French guy for three years,   
and not pick up some things in the process. And now, spit it out, Robert."  
  
The older man sighed, his eyes returning to the food on his plate. "I want you   
to understand a couple of things, Xander. I'm not here, and we're not having   
this conversation. If the brass knew that I was leaking this to you, both our   
asses would be out of the organization in less time than it takes to say 'you're   
fired'. I'm doing this because I consider you a good friend, and an   
indispensable member of... our little merry band."  
  
The young vampire nodded slowly, frowning and looking at him through half-closed   
eyes. "Is the risk that high?"  
  
Robert shrugged. "I would probably end up in charge of a substation in Anchorage   
or Finland, and quite frankly I'm too old and I don't like the cold. And you...   
well, you know your position is still compromised. Some people just don't like   
vampires, souled or not."  
  
After a few seconds of silence that the older man used to clear his throat with   
a good gulp of wine, he locked his eyes with Xander's. "Do you remember Jonah   
Whalls?"  
  
Xander nodded after a few moments, as his mind conjured up the face of the young   
man and the few facts that he knew about him. "Yes, we've met a couple of times   
but we've never shared more than one or two words."  
  
"I shouldn't tell you this, but he aspired to lead the original Hellmouth team   
until you joined the organization and the Archangels were officially   
sanctioned," Robert told him, his voice gaining a secretive tone and lowering   
practically to a whisper.  
  
"I'd heard some rumors about that," Xander admitted, "I guess he was relieved   
when we took the hot potato off his hands."  
  
The older man shook his head. "Far from it, the guy is a social climber of the   
highest class; leading the Hellmouth team would've been a great step up in his   
career. I don't have to tell you how... disappointed he felt, when you were   
nominated for the post."  
  
"And?"  
  
"They gave him another team, Team Prosecutor. Have you heard about them?"  
  
Xander paled noticeably, but he didn't try to his lack of comfort and, when the   
waiter finally came and placed his order in front of him, he just served himself   
a large glass of red wine and took a long gulp. "Who hasn't? They were massacred   
in Europe last year."  
  
"Yes, in Cologne to be exact. Whalls was the only survivor. But I will say in   
his defense that he wasn't entirely responsible for the whole debacle, and that   
at least they managed to prevent a new Hellmouth being opened there. The case is   
that he was, ah, taken off active field duty for a time."  
  
"Where is he now?" Xander asked, not having enough appetite to consume the dish   
of soup in front of him, but making himself do so in order to keep up   
appearances.  
  
"LA, he's one of our moles inside the LAPD. I don't need to tell you that all   
this is classified info, Xander," Robert warned the young vampire, "it has to   
remain strictly between you and me."  
  
"My lips are sealed," Xander accepted it, "but how does all this affect us?"  
  
The older man rolled his eyes and put on a strange face, as if to say 'you   
should have deduced it yourself by now'. "He's tired of the undercover work, and   
has requested to be reassigned to field duty. He still won't be given command of   
a team, but he has some good friends in high places. They're pressuring to   
relocate him as the organization's direct link with Team Archangel."  
  
Xander stared in silence at his boss and friend for an endless second. "Shit!"   
he finally exclaimed, once more making some heads turn around to look at them.  
  
"Xander," Robert told him calmly, trying to placate the young vampire's   
obviously growing anger. "You have to understand, your team's status is unique   
in the organization. You operate practically in an autonomous way, you alone   
don't report to a local substation chief, you're the only ones that don't   
include a direct link in your ranks... for God's sake, Xander, you even have a   
soulless vampire on your team!" he concluded almost with amazement.  
  
Coltrane continued, "There's a lot of people who don't like it that you have all   
that freedom, especially when you're assigned to one of the most conflicted   
spots in the world."  
  
The young vampire sighed, leaning back in his chair. "We work hard, you know   
that. We have the highest success rate of all the field teams," he stated,   
pointing out the facts with soft taps of his index finger on the surface of the   
table.  
  
"And that's why you've been allowed to have all that freedom, and why you can't   
allow yourself any misjudgment or error."  
  
Xander looked at him with a frown. "What is it that you're not telling me?"  
  
Robert crossed his hands over the table, leaning closer to Xander and looking   
around to assure himself that there wasn't anybody close enough to hear them.   
"The Watcher's Council knows about you."  
  
It was as if a lightning bolt had struck Xander right in his heart, paralyzing   
him. But a burning fire soon replaced the freezing cold he felt first at hearing   
his boss's words, as the anger began to grow again inside his belly. "What?   
How's that possible?"  
  
The older man shrugged. "Someone leaked the information to them; someone   
interested in putting you in a bad position, if you know what I mean."  
  
"Whalls?"  
  
Robert shook his head, with his mouth tightly shut in a twisted grimace. "No, he   
wouldn't do it personally, but maybe someone close to him."  
  
Xander leaned back again in his chair, playing with and pinching his lower lip   
as his brain worked hard and fast. It couldn't have come at a worse time; now   
that he had his mind in twenty different places after Faith's arrival, he just   
didn't need this to make him lose focus even more.  
  
"Do they know about Buffy's Immortality?" he asked, almost as an afterthought.  
  
"No, at least not yet. I don't think whoever it was told them anything really   
more than a few vague hints, but they were enough to make their little old   
brains jump. Especially Travers'."  
  
"That manipulative old bastard," Xander mumbled, barely keeping himself under   
control. "If he learns about Buffy, we'll have real troubles with the Council."  
  
"There's something more."  
  
Xander raised his eyes in surprise. "What?"  
  
"This is what Whalls is using to pressure your situation," Robert grimly told   
him. "Yesterday, a man claiming to be a collaborator of the Sunnydale PD,   
arrived at an LAPD precinct and asked some uncomfortable questions regarding a   
rather, ah, gruesome incident that took place at the Kobayashi Towers during   
Sunday night. Do you want a description of the man?"  
  
Xander stifled a curse between his clenched teeth. "Tall, impossibly British and   
wearing ten layers of tweed?" he guessed. Robert nodded, without uttering a   
word. "Damn it."  
  
As the young vampire hid his face between his hands and sighed, his older   
companion looked at him sympathetically. "Do you have any idea of what you'd do   
if they find out something?"  
  
"Better to say when they find out something," Xander grunted. "Giles can be a   
lot of things – but he's a bright guy, he'll figure it all out sooner or later.   
And it'll probably be 'sooner' than 'later'." He shook his head heavily. "I just   
don't know."  
  
"If you tell them about the organization you'll be breaking all the rules   
regarding internal security, and that will leave an open path right to your   
team's heart for Whalls," Robert warned him.  
  
"And if I don't, I'll be lying to someone that is more than just a friend to me,   
and the relationship between my team and the vampire Slayer's one will be   
seriously damaged..."  
  
"...which will also made you look bad in the high brass' eyes," Robert   
concluded.  
  
Xander seriously wished he had a good wall at hand to bang his head against it.   
"Damned if I do, damned if I don't."  
  
I'm sorry, Xander," Robert softly told him, "but when you accepted this line of   
work, you knew that there would be some hard decisions and that only you could   
make them."  
  
"I know," Xander sighed, shaking his head. "But sometimes I wish things were   
just a little easier."  
  
~~~~~~  
  
It was barely fifteen minutes later that Robert Coltrane came out of the   
restaurant, five minutes after Xander had left, and followed by his two   
bodyguards he walked to the long black limousine parked in a secluded alley not   
far from there.  
  
One of the men held the back door open for him as the other one monitored their   
surroundings, his eyes protected by dark sunglasses and his hand inside his   
jacket, placed on the butt of his gun.  
  
Once Coltrane was safe inside the bulletproof body of the limousine, the   
bodyguard closed the door and both he and his partner walked to a nearby   
unmarked Ford, ready to follow the longer vehicle's path.  
  
Inside the semi-dark interior that was produced by the deeply tinted windows,   
only lit by the small inner lamps, the middle-aged man made himself comfortable   
on one of the ample seats.  
  
He chose the one that faced backwards, and took a long and slow look at the   
person who sat in front of him. She was practically completely covered by a   
thick and heavy crimson velvet cloak, her head covered by its hood.  
  
The only parts of her he could really see were her hands (beautiful, with long   
and slender fingers that had long, deep scarlet polished nails). And the lower   
part of her face (a perfect chin and cheeks, the end of a perfectly defined nose   
and two of the most sensual lips he had ever seen covered by a thin layer of   
blood-red lipstick).  
  
Even so, Robert Coltrane's stomach did a serious flip-flop.  
  
As it did whenever he was close to her.  
  
"It's done," he told her, feeling suddenly shy.  
  
The woman just nodded once, so softly that he doubted if she had really done so.   
"There is something you want to ask?" she whispered and her voice, so soft that   
it was like a caress, bathed him like a balm.  
  
Robert Coltrane was a good man, a hard worker, a faithful husband and a loving   
father. But not for the first time, he wondered how it was possible that he was   
completely and hopelessly in love with a woman whose face he hadn't ever really   
seen. And with whom he had never spent more than half an hour at a time.  
  
"I'm wondering if all this is really necessary," he told her, expressing his   
doubts. The idea of hiding the truth from her was simply too stupid even to   
consider, she would know it anyway.  
  
She always knew, and that was one of the things that attracted him to her, the   
way she was able to look inside a man or woman's soul and see what was really   
there. "I'm wondering why we can't just tell him the truth."  
  
She shook her head, and smiled at him. "He's not ready yet. He still has a lot   
to learn, a lot to discover about himself and the world, before he learns what   
the truth is. And so does she. Neither of them are ready," she concluded.  
  
Robert nodded in acceptance, returning the smile to her. "I would just like to   
be able to help him more. I really like the kid."  
  
"We all like him, Robert. But there's too much at stake to risk; the time is   
near, and we cannot fail."  
  
Robert sighed, rubbing his left temple. "The Chosen Ones," he chuckled, "if   
someone had told me about all this just ten years ago, I would have ordered them   
be put into a straightjacket."  
  
The woman just smiled at him without saying anything.  
  
The darkened window that separated the driver's space from the passengers' one   
rolled down with the buzz of an electric mechanism, and the young man at the   
steering wheel turned around to face them.  
  
Jonah Whalls' voice was serious and no-nonsense, when he spoke. "Where do we go   
now, milady?"  
  
"Let's go home, Jonah," she said to him, "it's getting late."  
  
~~~~~~  
  
The library in the dark mansion was practically empty, and its only occupant was   
totally engrossed in examining the small figures of the chess game.  
  
Faith was fascinated by the exquisite details in them, the perfectly way in   
which the expression of their faces had been captured; it was almost like   
looking at the original people.  
  
She knew most of them, she had just met the other ones and others plagued most   
of her dreams of hate and vengeance.  
  
Egoyan in his little wheelchair in the Black King's square. Conrad Swann and Mr.   
Smith as the two Black Bishops. Damon Frost and Colonel Ashe were the two Black   
Knights. The Pantera brothers had been placed in the Black Rooks' squares, and   
the whole line of pawns were filled by identical military-like figures.  
  
And herself as the Black Queen.  
  
=Cute,= she thought, raising an eyebrow.  
  
In front of the small ebony-black army, their marble-white counterparts faced   
them. The blonde Slayer as the White Queen, the souled vampire Angel as the   
White King's Knight, the Watcher as the White Queen's Bishop and a certain   
peroxide-blonde vampire wearing a long duster as her White Rook.  
  
Some of the white pawns were familiar to her too; the bitch, the teen witch, the   
silent werewolf and the Slayer's mother.  
  
But some people were completely unknown to her.  
  
The White King's Bishop for example, was a young man with a roguish smile and a   
sword, and the White King's Rook a gorgeous woman bearing twin short swords. She   
wasn't able to recognize some of the white pawns either, a tall man with a rifle   
and a woman wearing vaporous robes.  
  
Two of the pawn squares were empty, as was the White King's one.  
  
But the White Queen's Knight... =My, oh my...=  
  
She carefully took his figure between her fingers, bringing the image of the boy   
that had captured her heart and mind closer to her.  
  
He was so beautiful... Faith closed her dark eyes and rolled him between her   
fingers, using her sensitive fingertips to trace every feature of his face and   
body, letting them trail over the muscles of his chest and the smooth planes of   
his coat-covered back.  
  
=So perfect for me...=  
  
The former Slayer opened her eyes, and examined his face. As she rolled him, the   
flickering light of the fireplace cast strange shadows on his features and, just   
for a second, his whole appearance seemed to change between her fingers. He   
became darker, his features melted and turned demonic, almost evil.  
  
Faith gulped, and had to swallow a little yelp of surprise. Another turn; and   
the effect of the game of lights and shadows vanished as if it had never   
existed; despite however much she tried, it was impossible for her to reproduce   
it again.  
  
"He is special, isn't he?" Egoyan asked at her back, rolling into the library.  
  
Faith just nodded, her eyes still captivated by the small figure between her   
fingers. "He's unique."  
  
The old man chuckled, shaking weakly his head. "You don't have any idea how much   
so he is," he practically muttered to himself. "Well, my dear, what do you think   
of our little band?"  
  
Finally leaving the Xander-shaped figure on the chess-board, the former Slayer   
turned around to face her host with half-closed eyes and her head slightly   
tilted to one side, as if she was seriously thinking her answer.  
  
"Interesting," she finally concluded. "Although I'm still wondering why you need   
to complicate things so much. There are easier ways to gain immortality."  
  
Egoyan sighed, rolling his chair to come closer to her. "I know that, but the   
kind of immortality that someone like you can offer doesn't interest me. No..."   
he shook his head, "I'm searching for something more... special."  
  
Faith shrugged. "It's your call – as long as you keep your promise and I get   
what I want from this, I'm on your side."  
  
The old crippled man smiled at her with his vulture-like smile, and nodded. For   
a moment he seemed to consider whether to tell her something, as he played   
absent-mindedly with the silver ring around his ring-finger, making it turn.  
  
"This is going to be an interesting relationship, my dear. I'm looking forward   
to finding what the two of us can do together," he said.  
  
"I'm sure of that," Faith answered with a tight smile, as she walked to the   
doors of the library.  
  
"Do you remember the way to your room?" Egoyan asked her gently. "Do you want   
Mr. Smith to accompany you?"  
  
Faith looked at him over her shoulder. "I'll find my own way. I always do."  
  
For a few moments, Broderick Egoyan looked at her silk-clad back as she   
disappeared into the dark hallway, and then at the empty spot left by the former   
Slayer with half-closed eyes.  
  
Then, he turned around in his chair to look at his chess game, and noticed with   
amusement that Faith had displaced the Black King's figure out of his square;   
placing Xander's one there, right beside her own image.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
Feeling that she hadn't anything better to do until the sun went down, Faith   
decided to spend the following hours walking around the whole gloomy mansion.   
She was thankful of the fact that all the blinds in the opened rooms had been   
closed, preventing the lethal rays of the sun from entering the building.  
  
She felt at first like a little girl in an endless toy shop, walking along the   
impossible long hallways, the dark corridors and the gothic rooms. Looking at   
the baroque statues of marble, stone and bronze, the paintings and all the   
artifacts that seemed to be taken out of an Indiana Jones movie.  
  
They had all the right features, the right layer of dust, the right mystery, and   
the right appearance.  
  
For a lonely kid as she had been for most of her life, a good imagination was   
often the only company one could have, and hers was one of the best. She   
wondered what stories were behind those objects, what kind of treasures they   
would be, what exotic places they'd visited before ending up in the possession   
of the crippled old man.  
  
When Xander and herself were finally together, she wanted to live in a place   
like this. Maybe in this very same house, it would just be a matter of choosing   
the right moment and then... well, out with the old, in with the new so to   
speak.  
  
In her pointless wandering, Faith finally found herself back again in front of   
the marble bust that represented who she thought had been Egoyan's late wife.  
  
Like the first time, she marveled at how beautiful she had been and felt the   
same strange sensation. There was something oddly familiar in her face, as if   
she had met her before, as if she had seen her somewhere else.  
  
Shaking her head in amazement, Faith examined the stoic face of the statue,   
tilting her head to one side and the other. Now that she noticed it, the bust   
seemed to be the only piece inside the whole mansion that was actually taken   
care of and the only one that hadn't a layer of dust covering it.  
  
Much to the contrary, its white surface was shiny, smooth and clean.  
  
Curious.  
  
As curious as it was how the artist had captured the woman's gorgeous features:   
in a way that, on one hand, they looked heart-clenchingly tender. And from   
another, hard and resolute, although they always remained beautiful.  
  
As said, curious.  
  
Shaking her shoulders with a shiver, Faith suddenly felt a little strange and   
uncomfortable under the statue's gaze, as if it could really see her. It was   
stupid to feel that way, but she couldn't help it.  
  
The idea of taking the bust and throwing it to the floor so it would shatter in   
a thousand pieces passed through her mind, but the former Slayer dismissed it as   
quickly as it had come. There was something in that face that suddenly made her   
feel... scared.  
  
She just went out of the room as fast as she could without actually running,   
leaving the whole incident behind her as if it had never happened. It was just   
too freaky, even for her.  
  
So, trying to forget everything about statues and odd feelings, Faith hurried   
her step trying to find the way back to her room. Mr. Smith had politely   
informed that he had installed some entertaining appliances there for her use,   
like a color TV and a stereo and that she would have fresh blood at her   
disposal.  
  
And heck, she ached for a long drink and some hours of mindless fun that only   
the idiot box could offer.  
  
Nevertheless, the former Slayer soon found that it was going to be a little   
difficult for her to find the way back, the damn mansion was so huge and so   
intricate the corridors were like the web of a spider.  
  
She began to get the feeling that she had gotten lost, and could've sworn that   
she had passed by the same statue of bronze with the form of a huge griffin   
twice.  
  
Sighing and trying to calm down, Faith closed her eyes and used her other sharp   
senses to place herself.  
  
With a smile, she quickly noticed a human heartbeat not far from where she was   
and carefully followed the beating trace to its source, crossing some darkened   
hallways until she found herself in front of a closed door, a thin beam of light   
filtering under the lowest part of it.  
  
The former Slayer knelt down and dared to quickly pass through the gauzy line of   
light, finding with pleasure that it was from an artificial source and couldn't   
harm her. Smiling, Faith applied her ear to the door and, feeling once more like   
a kid, listened to the soft sounds coming from the interior of the room.  
  
Metallic sounds, clicks and snaps, as if somebody was assembling a piece of   
machinery. And the same heartbeat she had followed, young, strong, sure.  
  
With unnatural silence, Faith turned the handle of the door and opened it just a   
little, peeking inside through the small crack.  
  
The room was almost exactly like the one that had been given to her, only that   
the bed had been moved to one of the corners. That had left a large and empty   
space in the center of the floor, that currently was filled by a large green   
sheet surrounded by a series of open vaults and boxes.  
  
Sticking out of the vaults and placed on the sheet, Faith was able to see what   
looked like an endless series of weapons and guns, from ordinary pistols and   
shotguns to more specialized weaponry like crossbows, swords and high-tech   
assault rifles.  
  
In front of the sheet, kneeling down in the seiza posture – a classic Japanese   
position – on the heels of his feet, was Damon Frost, with his back to her.  
  
He was almost naked, only covered by a couple of white silk pants, and the   
movements of his hands were slow and sure, almost ritualistic, as he assembled   
together some metallic pieces and gave form to a dark and nasty-looking gun.  
  
Nevertheless, what got Faith's attention the most was the huge burn scar that   
practically covered the whole of the man's back, almost from his hip to his left   
shoulder, where it seemed to continue onto his chest and left arm, although she   
wasn't able to confirm that from her position.  
  
The skin was a furious shade of pink, and was criss-crossed with a web of   
wrinkles that established a rough contrast with the rest of his fair and smooth   
skin.  
  
Damon completed the assemblage of the weapon and drove a fresh magazine into its   
butt, quickly bringing back the slide and feeding a round into the chamber with   
a noise of perfectly adjusted and oiled machinery.  
  
Trying to get a better look at his actions, Faith leaned slightly on the door,   
trying to increase a little the size of the opening but only succeeding in   
making the wood creak.  
  
Immediately, Damon seemed to come back to life, launching himself to the floor   
and turning around as he rolled over his shoulder and raised his gun with a   
smooth and sharp movement of his hands.  
  
In barely half a second, there was a red spot on Faith's forehead as the gun's   
laser sight aimed at her.  
  
Raising a smug eyebrow, the former Slayer opened the door wide and leaned on its   
frame, looking a the young man's semi-naked figure with appreciative eyes. The   
scar barely reached under his left collarbone and covered the first five inches   
of his left arm, leaving the rest of his chest untouched.  
  
She didn't minded those imperfections either, she believed that those kind of   
things gave character.  
  
Damon stood up slowly, the gun still pointing at the former Slayer. "Didn't   
anybody ever teach you to knock?" he asked her, grabbing a shirt from the   
surface of the bed and throwing it over his bare shoulders with his free hand.  
  
Faith shrugged as she walked into the room, an expression on her face that was   
naughty and innocent at the same time. "I've never liked being expected, I'm   
more the impulsive kind of girl."  
  
"I bet you are," he whispered with an edged smile, finally lowering the gun but   
not dropping it. "What brings you here?"  
  
"Boredom," she told him with a small pout, "and curiosity. Do you intend on   
facing an army?" she asked, with an slight shake of her head towards the   
scattered weapons.  
  
"Something like that." Damon's mouth twisted into a weird grin, as if he knew a   
secret he wasn't going to share with her. "I'm just a grown up Boy Scout, I like   
to be prepared."  
  
She took a step closer to him, so there were only a few inches of air separating   
their bodies. If the sandy-haired man felt uncomfortable at the proximity of the   
vampiress, he didn't show it. "Somehow, I can't imagine you with one of those   
Nazi-like little uniforms. It wouldn't be your style."  
  
Damon raised an eyebrow. "And what would be?"  
  
"I don't know," Faith shrugged. "I'm still trying to classify you."  
  
She took his left hand in her cold one and lifted it to her eyes, examining the   
bronze ring on his finger and the symbol engraved on the seal.  
  
"I didn't see this before," she told him, while she looked carefully at it. "You   
sure don't look like one of them."  
  
"I didn't know there was a stereotype look for us."  
  
She shrugged once more. "They tend to be colder and meaner."  
  
The young man snorted. "And I'm not cold and mean enough?"  
  
Faith didn't say anything, she just locked her brown eyes with his hard black   
ones and brought his ring finger to her mouth, softly enveloping it between her   
full lips, and licked its whole length with a slow and sensual gesture. Damon   
couldn't help but hiss and groan in pleasure.  
  
Smiling triumphantly, Faith took the seal and slid it easily off of his   
saliva-coated finger, taking a step back from the sandy-haired man as she   
playfully launched the ring upwards and grabbed it back when it fell.  
  
"Not as much as one would expect," she whispered, turning around and sending him   
a challenging look over her shoulder as she walked back to the door with a very   
feminine swagger, all the time playing with his ring.  
  
Damon just raised an eyebrow, crossed the space that separated them with two   
long and fast steps, grabbed the former Slayer by her shoulder just when she was   
about to go out of the room and made her violently turn around, practically   
slamming her back against the wall.  
  
Faith moaned in half-pain and half-pleasure, looking at him straight in his   
eyes, still with that challenging expression that was so her; her lower lip   
trapped between her teeth, in a sensual gesture.  
  
Then, the sandy-haired man slammed his mouth against hers, kissing her violently   
and roughly, his tongue roaming her mouth as his warm body pressed her cold one   
against the wall, feeling each one of her soft curves.  
  
Faith returned the kiss with the same fierce animal passion, one hand running   
over his back and the other one lost in the short strands of his hair. Damon,   
still holding his gun in his right hand, cupped her perfect tight ass with his   
left one, practically holding her when the brunette vampiress jumped into his   
lap and enveloped his waist with her legs.  
  
"Aren't you going to drop that pistol?" she asked him with a husky voice, as he   
carried her to the nearby bed, and their lips and tongues ran one against the   
other in rough and sensual kisses.  
  
Damon chuckled, genuinely amused. "Baby, you may be hot, but you're still a   
vampire," He let her fall onto the bed, and looked down at her with a twisted   
and edged smile on his lips, while he took off his pants. "And I do believe in   
safe sex."  
  
~~~~~~  
  
It wasn't until a couple of hours later that Damon was able to relax enough to   
close his eyes, and try to get some rest. All his experience with vampires,   
souled or not, wasn't exactly good and he was not inclined to take any chances   
with Faith, no matter how good the sex with her had been.  
  
Sighing, he finally engaged the safety of his Beretta M93R. After hiding it   
under the pillow, he opened and closed his hand, trying to loosen the knots and   
cramps he had there because of the long time it had been holding the   
fully-automatic weapon.  
  
He took a short look at her sleeping form beside him, and couldn't help but   
smile at the irony of it all.  
  
=If just a couple of weeks earlier, someone had told me I was going to end up   
shagging Xander's sire...= he shook his head in amazement, sometimes life dealt   
you cards that were just too weird.  
  
"What do you find so funny?" she asked softly and Damon turned around to look at   
her again, finding that she was fully awake and had her head propped up on her   
hand.  
  
"Nothing important," he told her with a smile, "just a personal joke."  
  
Faith looked at him through half-closed eyes, as if she still wasn't able to   
file him into any known category.  
  
"I though that the ones like you only did this for the money," she said,   
pointing at his left hand, which was wearing again the bronze seal, with her   
chin. "Egoyan said you had a family debt to pay."  
  
The sandy-haired man nodded, his black eyes lost in the ceiling above. "You   
could say that."  
  
"Someone I know?"  
  
He shrugged. "Maybe, maybe not. Anyway, if you don't mind, I'd like to get some   
hours of sleep," he said, closing his eyes. "Tomorrow is gonna be a long day,   
and we humans need to restore our strength."  
  
"Oh," Faith pouted, a little disappointed. "Some interesting plans?"  
  
Damon opened his eyes and looked at her in silence for a second, before smiling   
with a cruelty so intense that it even made her shiver like a leaf about to   
fall.  
  
"Yeah," he told her closing his eyes again, "I have to kill a friend."  
  
~~~~~~  
  
To be continued... 


	5. Part 5 of 8

DR2 - The Cross of Changes by Nick Midian, Book II, part 5 of 8   
  
Written by Nick Midian   
  
Content beta-reading and storyline suggestions by Duncan  
English grammar, spelling, slang, Highlander continuity and general corrections   
by Theo  
French slang, content beta-reading and storyline suggestions by Mash  
French slang by Alan  
  
  
EMAIL: jcaballero@euskalnet.net  
  
WEBSITE: http://www.angelfire.com/tv2/thedarkages  
  
SPOILERS: For Buffy the Vampire Slayer: 3rd season, BUT no Xander/Willow kissing   
and no Lover's Walk (welcome to the wonderful State of Denial, Land of   
'Shippiness). Hmmm, I've messed with the third season's timeline to accommodate   
it to my necessities. Let's just say that 'Band Candy' happened a lot later than   
it did, around the first days of February, OK?  
For Highlander: None really, the characters of the TV series and films are only   
tangentially mentioned. You just need to know the basics of Highlander-style   
immortality, BUT I've always thought that whole 'Immortals have no parents and   
are found in a little basket' is a... um, the Spanish word for it is 'chorrada',   
so let's just ignore it, OK?  
KEYWORDS: Romance, Angst, Action-adventure, Violence, Alternate Universe,   
Crossover.  
RATING: PG-13 with some mild R parts for violence and sexual innuendo.  
DISCLAIMER: This story has been written with no intention of profit, merely for   
the pleasure of writing and sharing it.  
The concept and characters of BTVS (Buffy, Angel, Cordelia, Xander, Willow, Oz,   
Giles, Joyce, Spike, Drusilla, Snyder, Faith, Harmony, Lyle Gorch, Quentin   
Travers and the rest) are intellectual and legal property of Joss Whedon, Warner   
Brothers, Mutant Enemy, etc. Also, the concept of Highlander and the characters   
mentioned here (Duncan MacLeod, Amanda Darieux, Richie Ryan, Joe Dawson and the   
Society of Watchers) are the property of Panzer-Davis and Rysher Entertainment.  
Michael Deveraux, Rachel Curran, Crystal Parker, Kyle White Owl, Robert   
Coltrane, Elvis the Dog, Broderick Egoyan, Damon Frost, Mr. Smith, the World   
Committee for Civil Defense and the rest are my own creation.  
All the songs and lyrics here are used without permission, they are copyright of   
their respective rights owners.  
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Please, understand that English is not my native language, so   
any grammatical or spelling errors are my fault, not of any one of my wonderful   
beta-readers. If you're thinking of sending any flames, please be kind with me.   
I'm a grown man, but I still can cry like a child, believe me.  
Additional Author's Note: The songs performed by Oz's band are 'Loli Jackson'   
and 'Serenade' by Dover. It appears courtesy of Subterfuge records. All rights   
reserved, yadda, yadda, yadda...   
SUMMARY: After the events in 'Dark Reflection' a new threat menaces both the   
Slayerettes and the Archangels as new and old enemies come to Sunnydale, merging   
past and present. This time, it's something personal - ta-da-da-dam!!! (sorry,   
but I just had to say that)  
  
And now, on with the show. Fasten your seat belts ladies and gentlemen, because   
it's going to be a long, hard and jumpy ride...   
  
~~~~~~  
  
The cast for Book II  
  
  
Nicholas Brendon as Xander Harris  
Charisma Carpenter as Cordelia Chase  
  
Sarah Michelle Gellar as Buffy Summers  
David Boreanaz as Angel  
Alyson Hannigan as Willow Rosenberg  
Seth Green as Daniel 'Oz' Osborne  
Anthony Stewart Head as Rupert Giles  
Kristine Sutherland as Joyce Summers  
  
Matthew Perry as Michael Deveraux  
Paula Trickey as Rachel Curran  
James Marsters as Spike  
Nikki Cox as Crystal Parker  
David James Elliott as Kyle White Owl  
Elvis the Dog as Himself  
  
Eliza Dushku as Faith Adams  
Donald Sutherland as The Old Chess Player, Broderick Egoyan  
Sebastian Spence as Damon Frost  
Avery Brooks as Mr. Smith  
  
Mercedes MacNab as Harmony Kendall  
Armin Shimerman as Principal Snyder  
Amy Chance as Aphrodesia  
Persia White as Aura  
  
Alan Rickman as Conrad Swann  
Wesley Snipes as Talon Pantera  
Dennis Rodman as Rush Pantera  
Tom Berenger as Colonel Cabbot Ashe  
Michael Ironside as the Sergeant  
Trevor Goddard as Backlash  
Shaquille O'Neal as Beast  
Jet Li as Bushido  
  
with  
  
Kevin Spacey as Robert Coltrane  
Nicholas Lea as Jonah Whalls  
and  
Catherine Zeta-Jones as the Lady in Red  
  
~~~~~~  
  
CHAPTER SIX: Uncertain waters  
Sunnydale, California. December 3, 2002. 5:34 p.m.  
  
When I look back upon my life  
It's always with a sense of shame  
I've always been the one to blame  
For everything I long to do  
No matter when or where or who  
Has one thing in common, too  
It's a sin  
  
Everything I've ever done  
Everything I ever do  
Every place I've ever been  
Everywhere I'm going to  
It's a sin  
  
"It's a Sin", Pet Shop Boys  
  
  
Holding the file tightly against her chest, asking herself for the one   
thousandth time if she was doing the right thing, Buffy knocked on the door of   
Angel's apartment.  
  
"Come in!" the souled vampire's voice came from inside. "It's open!"  
  
With a little frown of surprise, the blonde Slayer tested the handle of the door   
and found, much to her own amazement, that it easily turned under the pressure   
of her hand, opening without any noise.  
  
She raised an eyebrow in wonder. "Aren't you afraid of thieves?" she asked out   
loud, walking into the spartan apartment and taking a look around when at first   
she wasn't able to find her boyfriend.  
  
"Nope," his deep voice came from somewhere in the back, sounding a little odd,   
as if it was forced, "I don't have anything worth stealing."  
  
Buffy chuckled, genuinely amused. "You know? Sometimes you're really..." the   
Slayer finally got into the bedroom only to find Angel hanging upside down from   
a high metal bar, his arms crossed over his bare chest as he rocked slowly back   
and front, "...weird. What the hell are you doing?"  
  
"Abdominals," he said with a sheepish look. "You know, curiously enough being   
dead doesn't stop you from having love handles. I have to exercise." With a   
grunt, Angel folded up and, taking a good hold on the metallic bar with his   
hands, unhooked the ankle-boots from it and regained his vertical position.  
  
With an appreciative look, Buffy let her eyes wander over her beloved's naked   
and sweaty torso and back for some moments, while the soul-filled vampire picked   
a clean towel from the interior of his closet and used it to wipe himself clean.  
  
When he turned around, he caught the expression on the Slayer's face and   
couldn't help but smile smugly. "Do you see something you like?"  
  
Buffy blushed noticeably and had to make a real effort to tear her eyes away   
from the tall vampire's figure as she coughed softly. "Um, well, yeah, of   
course..."  
  
Angel took a step towards her. "What, Buffy? Cat got your tongue?"  
  
Raising an eyebrow slightly and lifting her head so she could look straight into   
his eyes, the Slayer let the corner of her mouth rise up in a sexy half-smile.   
Then, without uttering a word, she took Angel by the back of his neck and   
brought his mouth against hers, kissing him long, hard and deep.  
  
"Does it look like I lost my tongue?" she asked him softly a too-short minute   
later, when their mouths finally broke apart.  
  
The souled vampire chuckled softly. "No, definitely not," he whispered, taking   
her fully into his arms and returning the kiss with the same passion and   
strength.  
  
Sometimes it felt so damn good to play with fire...   
  
"Well, um, wow," Buffy finally muttered, breaking away from him and extricating   
herself from his embrace. "Although I can't complain about the service, this is   
like not the reason why I came here."  
  
Angel raised a surprise eyebrow, an expression that was quickly turned into a   
frown of worry. "No? Is something wrong?"  
  
"Well, it's Xander, um, he..."  
  
"Xander? Is he alright?" Even Buffy was surprised when he heard the deep note of   
heartfelt worry in the souled vampire's voice, when he asked about his younger   
blood-brother's state.  
  
She knew that, now that they had a lot of things in common, the two of them had   
managed to erase much of the tension that had existed between them in the old   
days and that they had developed a good friendship.  
  
But still, she was in no way ready for the depth of feeling she felt coming from   
her boyfriend, so clearly reflected in his dark eyes.  
  
After all, it was still strange to her – she remembered a time when the mere   
mention of Xander's name had provoked the immediate spark of jealousy to appear   
in Angel's eyes.  
  
"Y-yes, he's alright as far as I know," she blinked with surprise. "I didn't   
know you were such good friends."  
  
Angel shrugged as he searched for a clean shirt and threw it over his naked   
shoulders, sending an strange look towards her. "We have some things in common   
now."  
  
"Yeah..." she muttered, looking at him through half-closed eyes. "Anyway, it's   
not that I'm not worried about him, with the whole Faith thing and all, but   
Giles has just, um, found some unsettling info."  
  
The souled vampire looked at his girlfriend with a puzzled expression. "What do   
you mean?"  
  
Buffy offered the file to him. "Take a look at this, tell me what you think of   
it."  
  
With a small frown, Angel accept the offered item. After taking a seat on his   
bed, he opened it, flipping through its pages.  
  
"The Brotherhood of Ezrain," he said in a low tone when he reached the first   
picture, a close-up of the brotherhood's golden symbol. "I thought they'd   
disbanded in the late thirties."  
  
"Apparently not," the Slayer whispered in the same low tone, sitting close by   
him, "because they tried to summon this nasty demon last Sunday."  
  
"Mmm," he mumbled. "And it looks like the guys stopped it," Angel observed,   
racing through the rest of the pictures and shaking his head.  
  
Buffy looked at him with surprise. "Is it that obvious?"  
  
The souled vampire snorted, almost with amusement. "Are you kidding? Look at   
this guy," he said, showing her the picture of a dead man with an unmistakable   
vampire attack on his neck.  
  
Angel continued, "I'd recognize those bite marks anywhere. Spike keeps applying   
too much pressure with his lower jaw when he does this – the damn kid will never   
learn."  
  
This time, the expression on the Slayer's face was more astonished than   
surprised, and it quickly began to turn into anger as she got up from the bed   
and turned around to look at her boyfriend.  
  
"What?" he asked with puzzlement, at seeing her face.  
  
"I can't believe my ears, you don't seem at all worried or surprised about it,"   
she told him, shaking her head in amazement. "They were human beings, for God's   
sake!"  
  
As she paced nervously back and front, Angel just looked at her with calm eyes.   
"And?"  
  
Buffy stopped dead in her tracks and looked down at the souled vampire, her   
mouth slightly opened and her eyes wide with surprise. "And?" she repeated with   
incredulity. "What is that 'and' supposed to mean?"  
  
Angel sighed, leaving the file on the bed and looking back at her with what he   
hoped would be a calming expression. "They're hunters of the supernatural,   
Buffy. What did you think that meant?"  
  
"Not this!!" she practically exploded. "They practically massacred those   
people!! And they were human beings, Angel!! Killing human beings is a bad   
thing, it's... it's..." she fought, struggling to find the words. "Well, it's   
just something that you don't do!"  
  
"Why?" he asked again, his tone steady and calm.  
  
"Why? You ask me why? What's up with you today, Angel? It's suddenly   
Monosyllable Day, and nobody told me?!?" The blonde Slayer seemed angry enough   
to blow up, as she looked at the souled vampire with deep incredulity.  
  
Letting his shoulders sink down and sighing again, Angel passed a tired hand   
over the back of his neck. "Buffy..."  
  
"Don't 'Buffy' me, Angel! You know as well as I do that killing people is not   
the right way to do things! It's not how we do things, and I'll be damned if I-"  
  
"Could you just shut up for a second and listen to me?" he harshly cut off her   
angry tirade, making her speechless as she looked at him with growing   
astonishment.  
  
Blinking repeatedly, as if she was still trying to assimilate the souled   
vampire's words, the Slayer slowly sat down on a chair in front of him, her   
hazel eyes never leaving his dark brown ones.  
  
Angel sighed, shaking his head. "Buffy, I love you, you know that – but even I   
know that you have trouble seeing things from a point of view that's not your   
own."  
  
"Are you calling me dumb?" she asked, unable to hide her offense.  
  
"No," he told her with a smile, reaching out to take her hand in his, "I'm   
calling you stubborn, which is usually a good thing in your line of work;   
because it's what makes you keep going, even when sometimes it seems that it's   
against all sense or logic. It's part of what makes you so special, Buffy. But   
sometimes, it also works against you."  
  
"And you think this is one of those occasions?" Buffy asked meekly.  
  
Angel smiled once again, and nodded. "I know that for you this is a surprising   
and horrible discovery, and that you'd like to think that things don't have to   
be like this, but... sometimes, things are not the way we want them to be. Have   
you talked about this with Xander or Michael?"  
  
The Slayer shook her head softly, looking away. Angel asked softly as well, "And   
why didn't you wait till you've done that, to begin freaking about it?"  
  
"Thirty-seven human beings, Angel," Buffy stated, a little more harshly that   
what she intended. "They killed 37 human beings. What can they say to justify   
such carnage?"  
  
The souled vampire shrugged, shaking his head. "You won't know until you talk to   
them."  
  
The Slayer got up from her chair, taking her hand away from her lover's grasp   
and softly shaking her head as she sighed. "I don't get it, Angel. If they   
thought it was so dangerous that they had to use deadly force, why they didn't   
tell us anything? Why didn't they ask for help?"  
  
Angel snorted, looking at her almost with surprise. "Are you joking? Do you   
really think that Xander would put you or any of us in danger if he could avoid   
it? I may not know very many things about him, Buffy – but I do know that he has   
his priorities very clear, and that his first goal is to protect those he loves.   
Of which, I may add, you are very highly ranked on the list."  
  
"Well, if he's such a good friend, then why he doesn't share those kind of   
things with us? Why does he insist on keeping so many things secret?"  
  
This time, Angel was genuinely amused because, for a second, he wasn't able to   
tell if she was talking about Xander or himself. "Because of that same reason,   
Buffy. He wants to protect you, and he may think that you're not ready to accept   
some truths about him."  
  
"Haven't we had this conversation before?" she asked him with a small frown.  
  
The souled vampire just chuckled, nodding softly. "Yeah, I'm familiar with some   
of the lines. Hey," he told her, getting up from the bed and walking closer to   
her, "we don't have to talk about this right now. Why don't you spend the night   
here, and tomorrow I'll go with you to the warehouse and we'll talk with them.   
What do you say?"  
  
Allowing Angel to take her into his strong arms, Buffy let herself relax for the   
first time in the last few hours. "Mmm, sounds pretty good, but I have to   
patrol. Just a light one."  
  
"I'll go with you," he whispered, kissing her on the golden crown of her head.  
  
"But not right now, OK?" she whispered back, taking his hand and leading the   
souled vampire back to the bed. He let her lie on it and then followed her   
example, cuddling with the blonde Slayer with her back to his chest. "I just   
don't want to think too much right now."  
  
Angel smiled, enveloping her into his protecting arms and caressing her hair   
soothingly. Neither of them uttered a single word during the next few minutes   
and, after a while, the souled vampire finally felt the young woman that was his   
love relaxing into his embrace and slowly drifting off into a light nap.  
  
He allowed himself to relax too, and follow her into the realms of slumber.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
The steel roller-door of the warehouse rolled up with a sound of well-oiled   
machinery, and Xander drove the blue Monte Carlo inside the building.  
  
Or at least, that was what he tried to do, because, after having only advanced a   
couple of meters, he had to slam on the brakes not to run over what looked like   
enough pieces of machinery to build a locomotive.  
  
"What the hell is this?" he asked, while he got out of the car. He had taken off   
the jacket of his suit and his tie was hanging loose from his neck, the top   
button of his shirt popped open.  
  
Kyle emerged from what looked like the remains of an old VW Beetle, and glared   
at him with his bright blue eyes. "This is what happens when you ask for the   
impossible, dude!"  
  
The young vampire walked around the remains of the vintage German car, looking   
at them with a grimace. "This is Cordy's car?" he asked with incredulity.  
  
The tall Texan shook his head, while he wiped his greasy hands on a dirty towel.   
"No, that," he said pointing at the almost discarded body of the car, "is   
Cordy's car, this is just stuff that belongs in a junkyard. Listen, Xander, I   
like your girlfriend a lot, but I can't work miracles."  
  
Frowning, Xander threw his jacket over his shoulder and sighed. "I thought you   
were just going to take a look at it."  
  
Kyle grimaced, scratching the back of his neck. "Weeell... yeah, and I found   
that it was going to need some, ah, repairs."  
  
"Such as?"  
  
"Well, uh, a new engine wouldn't do it any harm, new suspension, a little body   
work, transmission..."  
  
The two men looked at each other in silence for a few seconds, and then Xander   
rolled his eyes tiredly. "I'll talk to her," he sighed, beginning to walk   
towards the lifter. "You just clean this up and," he turned around and threw the   
keys of the Monte Carlo to him, "park Spike's car, will you?"  
  
Catching the keys in mid-air, Kyle snorted unamusedly. "What? Am I the parking   
valet now?"  
  
Flashing a big grin, Xander winked an eye to him. "I'm sure you'd be charming in   
one of those red and black little uniforms, Kyle," he told him as he pushed the   
button.  
  
Grunting and shaking his head, Kyle just went to do as he was told; wondering,   
not for the first time, what he had been thinking about under that damn bridge   
two years ago.  
  
While the elevator took Xander to the second floor, the young vampire relaxed   
against the shaking wall for a moment and passed a hand over his tired features.   
Faith, the organization... it seemed like too much in way too short a time.  
  
=But,= he told himself sarcastically, =at least there's not much else that could   
go wrong.=  
  
The elevator stopped with a shake and he pushed up the wooden door, shrugging   
away the always-uncomfortable feeling of the buzz produced by the proximity of   
another Immortal.  
  
"Spike!! I'm gonna kill you!!" Rachel's usually soft voice resounded through the   
wall, with the force of a cannon-shot.  
  
"OK," Xander grunted to himself, "I spoke too soon."  
  
Sighing, the young vampire walked into the second floor, only to see how the   
bleached-hair vampire jumping over one of the couches of the rest area.   
  
He was trying to elude a very pissed-off, very wet and very little-dressed   
brunette Immortal who was chasing him at the same time that she precariously   
tried to cover her nakedness with the only aid of a too-short towel.  
  
"If I catch you, I swear that I'm going to make myself a garter belt with your   
intestines!!" she shouted at Spike, her damp mahogany mane of hair swinging   
wildly around her face when she threw a heavy glass ashtray at him.  
  
The bleached-hair vampire ducked and the shiny missile flew over his   
peroxide-blonde head, colliding against a wall and exploding into tiny sharp   
pieces.  
  
"Oy! I've already said I'm sorry!" he protested. "What else do ya want?"  
  
"Seeing you impaled to the wall would be a good start!" she hissed to him   
menacingly, searching for a new object to throw at him.  
  
"Hey! Hey!" Xander called them, letting out a long and sharp whistle. "Calm   
down, the both of you, will you?"  
  
"Xander!" Spike exclaimed with relief, quickly running to him and using the   
vampiric Immortal as a make-shift barrier between the wild brunette and himself.   
"Help me out 'ere, mate – this crazy chick wants to kill me!"  
  
"Getting killed is nothing compared to what I'm going to do when I get my hands   
on you, you little piece of shit!" Rachel threatened him, struggling to hold the   
towel in place over her more-than-generous physique.  
  
"What the hell have you done this time, Spike?" Xander asked his friend over his   
shoulder.  
  
The bleached-hair vampire shrugged innocently. "Nothin'."  
  
"I caught this pervert peeking at me while I was taking a shower!" she   
exclaimed, picking up the heavy lighter that had been the partner of the   
now-deceased ashtray and throwing it at them. "If you think that hiding behind   
Xander is gonna protect you, you are so wrong, jerk!!"  
  
This time, both vampires had to duck to avoid the flying object from breaking   
open their skulls.  
  
"I was looking for Michael!" Spike shouted, diving for the protection that was   
offered by the heavy couches. "He's got a phone call!"  
  
"And you thought you'd find him with me in the shower?" the Immortal asked with   
incredulity.  
  
The bleached-hair vampire shrugged. "Well, that's where he spends 'alf his time   
now, since the two of you finally decided to play doctor!"  
  
Xander nodded softly at this. "Y'know, Rach, he actually has a point... never   
mind, it's none of my business," he corrected himself after he noticed Rachel's   
killer stare directed at him. "Anyway, you should calm down before you do   
something irreparable."  
  
"Irreparable sounds good," she growled.  
  
"And what's all the fuss about, anyway?" Spike tried to defend himself. "It's   
not as if I've never seen ya naked before!"  
  
This time, both the brunette Immortal and the other vampire turned to look at   
him with wide-open eyes. "What?" the two friends squeaked at the same time.  
  
"Well, uh," Spike mumbled, feeling that he had made a faux pas once again,   
"there was that time in Toronto with that mucus-like corrosive thing, don't ya   
remember? That thing ate all o' ya clothes, and I 'ad to give ya me duster."  
  
He smiled at Xander, with an evil leer. "I got more 'n an eyeful that time, if   
ya know what I mean, mate."  
  
"God!" Rachel shouted, launching herself forward. "You told me you weren't   
looking!! You are so dead!!!"  
  
Xander managed to grab her by the waist in the last moment before she tore   
Spike's eyeballs out, and the brunette Immortal struggled in her friend's grasp,   
trying to free herself from it.  
  
"Rachel!" he exclaimed. "Calm down before you hurt yourself!" She sank her elbow   
into his stomach, and the young vampire grunted in pain. "Or me!!"  
  
"I just want to kill him!" she protested. "Please, just let me kill him!"  
  
"Er, Rach?" Spike called her attention from a couple of meters away.  
  
"What!?!"  
  
He offered a weak smile to her. "Your towel... it, uh, it's slippin' down, luv."  
  
"Aarrgh!!" Rachel Curran screamed, redoubling her efforts to get away from   
Xander and managing to grasps the lapels of Spike's shirt, bringing him close   
enough to her to knee the British vampire squarely in the crotch.  
  
"Urngh!!" he groaned, practically falling onto her.  
  
That was, of course, when the two present Immortals felt the buzz of a coming   
comrade hitting both of them. They turned around to see, carrying a couple of   
brown bags fill of groceries in his arms, Michael getting out of the elevator.  
  
And, also of course, there was a moment of uncomfortable silence as the French   
Immortal found his almost-naked girlfriend sandwiched between the two handsome   
vampires, the dark-haired one hugging her from behind while the bleached-hair   
one leaned his head on her shoulder as he moaned.  
  
Michael coolly raised a light-brown eyebrow. "Is there something you would like   
to tell me, mes amis?"  
  
Rachel and Xander exchanged a short look over her shoulder. "Mmm, this is not   
what it looks like?" she asked with a hopeful and nervous smile.  
  
"Oh man," Spike moaned, "my balls!"  
  
~~~~~~  
  
A few moments later, Michael had thrown a struggling (and after a few seconds,   
giggling) Rachel over his shoulder to carry her to her bedroom. Spike had gone   
to the kitchen, to grab a good pack of ice to place on the most sensitive part   
of his body.  
  
So Xander finally walked to his own bedroom and let himself fall face first on   
his bed, hiding a groan of exhaustion inside his pillow.  
  
It was at that very moment, that his cell phone began its chirping and annoying   
sound inside the interior pocket of his jacket. With a new groan, the young   
vampire rolled over in his bed, gazing at the ceiling as he took it out.  
  
"No rest for the damned," he muttered, bringing the phone to his ear. "Home of   
Xander, the stressed one. If you want to kick my fallen butt, please pick a   
number and wait your turn at the end of the line."  
  
Cordelia's soft giggles came from the other end of the line, and the young   
vampire couldn't help but smile at hearing her, feeling almost immediately more   
calm and at peace.  
  
"Hey, stressed one," she greeted him, "how you doing?"  
  
"Mmm," he moaned, stretching out like a big fat cat, "just a couple of domestic   
problems, you know, with the kids and all that. I miss you."  
  
"So do I," she softly told him. "What are you wearing?"  
  
Xander burst out in good-natured laughter, lifting his arm to lean his head on   
it. "What am I wearing? Let's see... nothing but a silky and deep-violet   
g-string..." he told her seductively.  
  
"Mmm," Cordelia moaned softly, "that sounds promising. Anything else?"  
  
Xander's grin was so wide, that he thought it was impossible that his girlfriend   
didn't notice it through the telephone line. "Well, only my socks, although one   
of them has this huge hole in it and my toe is sticking out like a, uh, well,   
like a thumb. And the poor fella is getting cold."  
  
"God," Cordelia grunted in pain, making him smile even more widely, "now I won't   
be able to get that image out of my mind for the rest of the day. Way to break   
the mood, Xander."  
  
The young vampire chuckled softly at the phone and, after a few seconds, he   
heard his girlfriend joining him with amusement. "Well, Cordy, what can I do for   
you?"  
  
"You know, Xander, if you'd have kept up with the game, now I'd be the one who   
would be asking that question."  
  
"Another scratch on my list of 'well done' things for today," he lamented.  
  
"Something's going wrong?" she asked with worry.  
  
"Nah," he said, shaking his head with a sigh, "it's just that I have all these   
things running around inside my mind and I don't seem to be able to stop them. I   
need to relax a little, or I'm gonna go crazy. Do you have any suggestions?"  
  
"Truth is, I have," she told him, and Xander was almost able to conjure the   
image of her beautiful smile inside his mind. "Angel's just called to tell me   
that Buffy and him are going to call it a night early after a quick patrol and,   
as Wills is going to have a wolf-night with Oz, I thought you could ask Michael   
and Rachel and the four of us could do something together. Nothing too fancy,   
you know, go to the movies, a dinner and then some Bronzing."  
  
"You mean like a double date?" Xander arched his brow, considering it. "It   
sounds almost... normal."  
  
"That's what I was thinking, something to clear your mind."  
  
The young vampire smiled. "Do I pick you up at Giles' store? In about an hour?"  
  
"I'll be waiting," she promised him, her tone turning softer and more intimate.   
  
Xander turned around, hugging his pillow as if it was her body and finding it a   
very poor substitute for her soft and warm skin. "How much?"  
  
Her response was almost a caress in his innermost core. "Anxiously."  
  
"Make it forty-five minutes," he told her. "And, Cordy?"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"I love you," he said sincerely.  
  
He was almost able to feel her smile through the line. "I know. And I love you   
too, airhead."  
  
Smiling like an idiot, Xander finally disconnected the phone and sighed, lying   
spread-eagle on his back and looking at the ceiling. Sometimes, in moments like   
this, he was almost able to remember how it was to feel human again.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
Damon opened the heavy blinds of the window of his room just enough to peek   
outside and the last rays of the dying evening sun hit him squarely in his black   
eyes, blinding the young man for a second and making him look aside.  
  
He'd spent the last few hours submerged in a strange kind of haze, either making   
love to Faith with an abandoned frenzy, or half-sleeping beside her.  
  
So, it could be said that he was far from feeling well-rested; but the most   
curious part about the whole thing was that it hadn't been the fact of sharing   
his bed, for most of the evening with a semi-psychotic vampire, that had kept   
him from having a good rest.  
  
Far from it, he knew more things about Faith now than what she realized; and he   
knew positively that, if it came down to it, he would be able to dust the former   
Slayer.  
  
No, it wasn't her that kept him too wired up to sleep. It was him. It was that   
consuming fire burning inside his belly. It was the sensation of having   
something alive inside his stomach, something that was angry and trying to came   
out, ripping his flesh and muscles to show its ugly face in the hash light of   
day.  
  
He was going to kill the person he had loved the most in his whole life, and   
that was an idea that made him want to laugh and cry at the same time.  
  
Hate, envy, love, joy, pain, sadness, fear... Damon Frost had to swallow the   
thick knot that had formed in his throat and, when he looked down at his own   
hands, he found much to his own surprise that they were trembling.  
  
Whether from excitement or fear, he couldn't tell.  
  
=Why am I doing this?= he asked himself. =I could turn around right now and just   
leave. I could forget all about what's going on, and get on with my own life as   
if nothing had happened.=  
  
But something had happened. He was here. He was ready. He had to do it. There   
was no turning back. He owed it to himself.  
  
And to Michael Deveraux.  
  
He had to show it to him. He had to make him understand. He had to make him   
accept the truth.  
  
He was the best. Period.  
  
"What are you doing?" Faith's husky voice asked him from the bed.  
  
"I'm looking outside," he told her matter-of-factly.  
  
The vampiress passed a hand through the wild loose strands of her brunette mane.   
"Anything interesting?"  
  
Damon shook his head. "Nothing," he whispered softly, seriously doubting she was   
really interested in the answer. "The sun is setting."  
  
"Good," she practically purred, stretching sensuously like a big cat under the   
sheets of the bed. "I'm getting tired of looking at these four walls."  
  
The young hit man looked at her over his shoulder, frowning slightly. For a   
moment he considered telling her to stay in the house until Egoyan explained to   
them how exactly he wanted things done, but then he felt his own impulses   
getting the better of him.  
  
"Where do you plan to go?" Damon asked her, as he circled around the bed and   
recovered his discarded shirt from the floor.  
  
Faith got up from the bed and, naked as the day she was born, imitated him and   
grabbed her clothes. "I don't really think it's any of your business."  
  
As he buttoned his shirt, Damon looked at her with the corner of his mouth   
slightly risen in an edged half-smile. "Aren't we a little touchy?"  
  
Slipping inside her tight dress, looking too much like a snake recovering her   
discarded skin, a snake with wonderful curves, the former Slayer sent him an   
irritated look. "Like I said, none of your business."  
  
"I was just thinking that you could use some company," he observed with a   
nonchalant shrug as he finished getting dressed, sitting down on the bed and   
slipping his socks and shoes on.  
  
Faith looked at him with incredulity. "And what led you to believe that,   
toyboy?"  
  
Damon let out a dry laugh, and shook his head. "Y'see sweetheart, I guess you   
don't realize it – but last night, when you had your little encounter with   
your... childe and the little blonde, you were incredibly lucky. Now you don't   
have the element of surprise anymore, and they will be waiting for you."  
  
"Uhh," she whispered, mocking a shiver, "see how scared I am."  
  
"You should be," he told her harshly, his tone turning hard and rough. "You   
don't have any idea of who you're facing."  
  
This time, the former Slayer looked at him with more attention. At first she had   
believed that, when saying 'they', he had been talking about the Slayer and her   
little gang – but now, hearing his suddenly severe tone and seeing the serious   
sparkle in his black eyes, she thought otherwise. "And you do?"  
  
The young hit man laughed good-naturedly. "Yeah, you could say I know one or two   
things about them."  
  
Shaking his head with amusement, he took a black synthetic holster from the back   
of a chair and hung it from his shoulders, carefully adjusting it over them and   
clasping it to his belt, carefully securing his twin guns into it afterwards.   
"Why don't we go for a walk and I show you?"  
  
Crossing her arms over her chest, Faith tilted her head to one side and looked   
at him. "Are you asking me out, toyboy?"  
  
Damon just let the crooked smile return to his lips and, shaking his head,   
walked slowly to her and placed his hands on the wall, one on each side of her   
head, leaning so close to her that, when he spoke, his breath caressed her lips.   
"Don't fool yourself, baby. I'm not a toy, not anybody's and especially not   
yours. And I don't like to play."  
  
Her lips extended into a thin and sexy smile and Faith closed the space between   
their mouths, slowly and sensuously tracing Damon's lips with the cold and wet   
point of her tongue and then fully capturing him in a long and deep kiss.  
  
"Keep going with this attitude," she softly whispered to him when they finally   
broke apart, "and I may even begin to like you."  
  
The young hit man chuckled shaking his head. "One thing I have to admit about   
you, baby," he told her after taking his cashmere coat and guiding her to the   
door, "you're really something."  
  
Faith looked at him sideways, and raised a dark brown eyebrow. "You have no   
idea, toyboy. No idea."  
  
~~~~~~  
  
"Come on, come on!" Rachel called Michael while she put on her leather jacket.   
"It's getting late!"  
  
"Hey!" the French Immortal protested while he struggled with the zipper of his   
jeans. "It wasn't me who wanted to take a second shower."  
  
Brushing her hair one last time and checking its appearance and shine, the   
brunette sent her lover an annoyed look through the mirror. "No, but it was you   
who had the bright idea of jumping inside it with me."  
  
Michael smiled sweetly and, walking close to her and surrounding her waist from   
behind, placed a soft and loving kiss on the nape of Rachel's neck. "Am I   
hearing any complaints, ma chèrie?" he asked with that devilish smile of his,   
nuzzling the silky skin of her neck with his nose and reveling in the natural   
perfume of her body.  
  
Turning around in his embrace, Rachel couldn't help but return his smile when   
she leaned her forehead against his and hugged him back.  
  
"I'm a weak woman, Michael," she finally said, her sensuous mouth parting into a   
warm smile, "you can't blame me for failing to resist if you begin doing...   
interesting things to my body."  
  
"Oh, really?" he whispered softly, letting his hands move under her plain   
jacket, caressing her through the white silk blouse she was wearing. "What kind   
of things?"  
  
Raising a knowing eyebrow, the brunette Immortal shook her head. "These kind of   
things."  
  
She kissed him on the lips, lightly. "The same ones that..." he was the one who   
kissed her this time, a little more strong and deeply, "...if we don't stop   
them..."   
  
She took him fully into her arms, one hand exploring the planes and ridges of   
his back under his jersey and the other letting her fingers lose themselves   
between the short strands of his light brown hair.   
  
"...will make us..." they kissed again and, this time, the kiss grew so hot and   
passionate that for a moment they forgot even the need to breathe, "...arrive   
late," she finished, panting lightly.  
  
With his dark blue eyes lost in her chocolate-brown ones, Michael shook his head   
in confusion. "Arrive? Where?"  
  
Rachel closed her eyes for a brief moment, making an effort to remember. "I   
don't know, I've forgotten."  
  
Michael shrugged, frowning deeply. "And who cares?"  
  
After looking at each other for a silent second, the two lovers crushed their   
mouths together fiercely, their lips fighting a silent battle as their tongues   
caressed and explored the warm and wet heavens of their mutual oral cavities.  
  
Rachel tightened her embrace on him and Michael pressed her against   
the wall, rejoicing in the contact of her voluptuous body against his. A mere   
second more and both Immortals felt that their knees weren't strong enough to   
hold their bodies up anymore.  
  
And then, just when they were beginning to slide down the wall and to the floor,   
somebody began to pound on the door.  
  
"Hey!" Xander's muffled voice came from outside. "It's late! What are you guys   
doing in there? Re-inventing the wheel?"  
  
Groaning, Michael hid his face in the crook of Rachel's neck and felt her sigh   
of disappointment caressing the soft hairs at the back of his own. "We're   
coming!" he exclaimed after a short moment that they both used to regain their   
composure.  
  
Then, he turned around to his lover and friend with a little pout on his lips.   
"Couldn't we just say that we're sick?"  
  
Extricating herself from his arms, Rachel shook her head. "Come on, Michael, you   
know this is not about us. Xander needs the company of his friends right now,   
probably more than ever."  
  
The French Immortal sighed once more, rolled his eyes, and took his long woolen   
coat from the interior of his closet. "Je comprends, Raquel, it's just that I   
don't know of what point this can be to help. Going out on a double date? It   
seems so..." He shook his head.  
  
"So what? Normal?" At Michael's nod and sheepish expression, Rachel couldn't   
help but to laugh out loud. "For God's sake, Michael, I thought you were the one   
who always wanted to have a normal life!"  
  
For a moment, when she turned around to check her make-up and general appearance   
in the mirror, Michael looked at her back through half-closed eyes and sad eyes.  
  
"Maybe once," he told her softly, "long ago."  
  
Smiling softly, the brunette woman turned around and took his hands into hers,   
squeezing them lovingly. "Come on, my love, just relax a little and try to go   
with the flow. Who knows? You may even enjoy it."  
  
Finally smiling again, the French Immortal raised an incredulous eyebrow. "I   
doubt it. I'm like two hundred years too old to go clubbing with a couple of   
hormonal near-teenagers."  
  
Yanking at his hand, practically dragging her indolent lover to the door, Rachel   
smiled at him crookedly. "I have a proposition for you. If you're nice, you   
relax and try to have some fun tonight, I..."  
  
This time, the raising of Michael's eyebrows was clearly of interest. "You   
what?"  
  
She tilted her head to one side and sent him a wicked look. "I'll be nice to   
you, I'll help you to relax and I'll make sure that you have fun afterwards."  
  
Michael's mouth parted into a wide, and almost idiotic grin. Then, it was him   
who began to drag her to the door and opened it wide, practically colliding with   
Xander, who was waiting for them outside the room.  
  
"Come on, mon frère!" he exclaimed animatedly, taking the young vampire's hand   
in his free one and practically dragging the two of them away. "The night is   
young, and we're going to paint this town red!"  
  
With a frown, Xander looked at Rachel. "What's up with him now?"  
  
Smiling softly, the brunette Immortal just shook her head.  
  
In a couple of minutes, the three friends were on the first level and, while   
Xander rode on his black Yamaha, Michael searched for the keys to his car inside   
the pockets of his coat.  
  
"What are you doing?" Rachel asked him.  
  
He frowned at her. "What does it look like I'm doing? I'm going to get the car."  
  
"Uh-uh," she shook her head, "not tonight."  
  
The French Immortal arched his eyebrow in confusion. "And how do you intend we   
get there, ma chèrie? Walk?"  
  
With a crooked and wicked smile, Rachel walked to her red Suzuki RF600R and   
straddled it, turning the key and starting the compact but potent engine of the   
bike. "Tonight, I'm driving."  
  
Michael blinked in surprise and exchanged a quick look with Xander, who just   
chuckled and shrugged. "Don't look at me, Michael. Your girlfriend, your call."  
  
"Come on, loverboy," Rachel challenged him, revving up the bike, "do you have   
what it takes to ride with me?"  
  
Letting the corners of his lips rise up in a crooked and daring smile, Michael   
got on the bike behind his lover and hugged her around the waist, his hands   
trailing along her thighs, covered by skin-tight jeans, and his body pressed   
against hers. "Lead the way, oh mighty Amazon."  
  
Before she could answer him, the three friends were suddenly distracted by the   
sound of the elevator coming down and, after that, by the image of a limping   
Spike, who got out of it and walked slowly and awkwardly to his blue car.  
  
"Are you alright, Spike?" Rachel asked him with a sarcastic smile. "Are you in   
any kind of pain?"  
  
Looking at her with hostility, the bleached-hair vampire growled at her through   
the corner of his mouth. "I'm not talkin' to you no more," he spat at her,   
opening the door of his car and carefully getting into it with a grimace of pain   
when he sat down.  
  
"And you," he told Michael, "damn it, mate, I can't believe you let 'er touch   
you with them hands o' hers."  
  
"What can I say?" the French Immortal shrugged. "I love to play with fire."  
  
Sending the trio one last annoyed look, the bleached-hair vampire closed the   
door a little forcefully and started the engine. "Let's get outta 'ere, 'fore I   
change my mind and rip all o' ya to bloody pieces," he growled.  
  
Without saying anything, Xander shook his head with an amused smile and lowered   
the windshield of his black helmet, revving up the muscular engine of his bike   
and being closely imitated by his friends until the whole warehouse seemed to be   
trembling with the combined roar of the machines.  
  
In front of them, after the young vampire had activated the remote control, the   
steel roller-door furled up and the three vehicles were launched forward into   
the dying light of the evening.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
Damon and Faith were about to leave the mansion when they were stopped by Mr.   
Smith, who, as usual, seemed to materialize from the shadows that filled each   
corner of the Gothic building.  
  
"Mr. Egoyan would like to have a word with you," he told Damon while making an   
unmistakable gesture for the man to accompany him. When, after sighing with   
boredom, the sandy-haired man did so and Faith followed him, the tall black man   
made her stop. "In private."  
  
The former Slayer raised an eyebrow, with deep incredulity and sarcasm. "What,   
it's a 'boys only' thing or something?"  
  
"Or something," Mr. Smith told her, with his harsh tone and severe look.  
  
"Why don't you go and get my car ready?" Damon suggested her, offering the keys   
to the vampiress before she had the chance to jump on Smith and rip his throat   
open. "It's the silver Aston Martin."  
  
Faith looked at the offered keys doubtfully before finally accepting them and,   
when he had done so, she placed their cold surface against her always promising   
cleavage and looked at Damon with a childish pout on her sensual lips. "Can't I   
drive it?"  
  
Damon shrugged, looking at her over his shoulder at he began to follow Smith's   
already retreating broad back. "Sure, if you promise to be a good girl."  
  
The former Slayer smiled at him sweetly, swaying a little with her hands hidden   
behind her back.  
  
"I'm always good," she said with a childish voice. At Damon's doubtful look, her   
smile grew wider. "Well, most of the time..."  
  
=OK, let's admit it,= the young hit man told himself a few minutes later, when   
he finally followed Smith's trail back into the library. =You like her. If she   
wasn't a psychotic, homicidal, obsessed vampire, you'd even consider seeing her   
again after all this is over.=  
  
"Are you a happy man, Mr. Frost?" Broderick Egoyan, who was showing his back to   
him and looking at the eternally burning fireplace from his wheelchair, asked   
the younger man without turning around.  
  
Noticing a hard and almost hostile tone in the old man's voice that hadn't been   
there before, Damon looked at him more carefully as he slowly licked his own   
lips with a thoughtful expression.  
  
"I can't complain," he simply told him, not really knowing what the crippled   
man's game right was then.  
  
Egoyan turned his wheelchair around and looked at him, with his head tilted to   
one side as if he was really checking him out for the first time. Suddenly,   
Damon felt as if something dead was crawling up his backbone and had to make an   
effort not to shudder.  
  
"I've heard that you and Miss Faith have... grown fonder of each other, in the   
last few hours."  
  
Was it jealousy that he had just heard? The young hit man wasn't sure, but he   
couldn't help but let a smug grin of superiority appear on his lips for a brief   
moment. "You could say we've gotten to know each other, in a closer kind of   
way."  
  
Egoyan looked at him with an strange expression, one eye slightly more closed   
that the other, with a grimace of repugnance on his thin lips. "Well, it's   
certainly nice that you two are getting along so well. I just hope you don't   
allow it to interfere with the job you have to do."  
  
This time, Damon's expression was a sincerely offended one. "I'm a   
professional."  
  
Smiling now that he had attained a direct hit, Egoyan looked at him sideways. "I   
don't doubt your professionalism, Damon," he told him, putting a sarcastic   
emphasis on the younger man's name. "The truth is, I'm counting on it for you to   
help me."  
  
Looking at him with his black eyes half-closed in an expression of measurement,   
Damon tilted his head to one side. "Explain yourself."  
  
The old man smiled like a hawk and rolled away to the chess-board, which was   
still in its prevalent place, with all its pieces carefully placed on their   
respective squares. "I don't believe you fully understand the significance of   
Miss Faith to my plans, but I can't blame you for that. After all, I still   
haven't properly explained them to you."  
  
"And," he added, cutting off Damon's response, "that time will arrive soon,   
don't worry about it. Getting back to our dear Miss Faith, I need her; she's one   
of my most important pieces, but even I have to admit that she's also the most   
unstable one. I need somebody, I need you to be her Black Knight," he told him   
with a slight shake of his head towards the chess board.  
  
"Do you want me to be her bodyguard?" he asked, not wanting to consider the   
irony of the fact that he had indeed been guarding her body, for the last   
several hours.  
  
"Yes, Mr. Frost," the crippled old man told him with that cold and vulture-like   
smile that was so his, "protect her, but I also need you to keep her from doing   
anything that could backfire against us. Control her. Stop her if necessary. I   
think that you're already in an enviable position to do so."  
  
Damon raised an eyebrow. "Anything else?"  
  
"Well, now that you mention it..." Damon just sighed, sinking his hands in the   
deep pockets of his coat. "As you're going out, you could do me a little favor."  
  
The young hit man offered him a tight and obviously faked smile. "I aim to   
please."  
  
"Of all my guests, you're probably the one who has the best knowledge of what   
we're going to face. You know them extremely well, if I'm not wrong."  
  
Damon shifted from foot to foot, uncomfortably looking away from Egoyan's   
figure. "Yeah, you could say so."  
  
The old man smiled complacently at seeing his younger opponent's evident lack of   
comfort, and shook his head weakly. If his lungs had still had the strength to   
do so, he would have laughed out loud.  
  
"As you know them so well, you probably already know that their strength is not   
based on their respective abilities or capacities, but on how they manage to   
combine them into something that is bigger and stronger than the mere sum of   
their parts."  
  
"Yeah, I know that," Damon practically whispered to himself. "I know that very   
well."  
  
"If we want to have success in our little project, we'll have to undermine that   
strength," Egoyan said, his attention once more captivated by the chess board.   
"We have to weaken them. They're like a chain, so to speak, and I guess you   
already know that a chain is only as strong as its weakest link, don't you?"  
  
At Damon's silent nod, Egoyan insisted, "Do you know who I'm referring to?"  
  
Lifting an eyebrow, Damon chose a figure from the board and threw it to the old   
man's lap. "That one."  
  
"Exactly," Egoyan said without bothering to look at the white figure lying in   
his lap. "Mr. Smith will give you the address where you can find this... person   
tonight."  
  
"And what am I supposed to do once I'm there?" he inquired absent-mindedly,   
while he examined the little piece of paper that the tall black man had passed   
to him without uttering a word.  
  
Egoyan shrugged. "Nothing especially explosive, just look at how things are and   
begin to sow the first seeds of discord. And don't forget," he added with an   
afterthought when Damon had already turned around to go, "don't let your   
personal feelings interfere with your job."  
  
Very slowly, Damon turned his head to look at the older man over his shoulder.   
"I've already told you," he said, taking out his sunglasses from the interior of   
his coat and, after putting them on, looking at Egoyan over their dark rim, "I'm   
a professional."  
  
Then, he just pushed the glassed up his nose with the point of his finger until   
they completely hid his eyes, turned around and went away without looking back.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
Kyle shifted uncomfortably in his seat by the kitchen table, unsuccessfully   
trying to find a more comfortable position, and cleared his throat with a soft   
cough, looking intently at his companion's eyes.  
  
"I, uh, I..."  
  
=The hands,= he thought, looking at them flat on the surface of the table. The   
hands were a problem, and he didn't know what to do with them.  
  
If he tried to hide them under the table, it was as if somebody had cut his   
lower arms off. If he put one over the other, they began to sweat and made him   
feel sticky and even more nervous than what he already was.  
  
And, if he entwined his fingers, he couldn't help but begin twiddling his thumbs   
and then he just looked plainly idiotic.  
  
In the end, he decided to leave them as they were and, taking a long and deep   
breath, centered his attention back in the expectant eyes of his interlocutor.  
  
"Well, I, uh, I... listen, I don't know if you've noticed it but, from my modest   
point of view, we have a certain, something, uh... chemistry, but without the,   
well, the psychic part, it's less a... science," he said, tilting his head   
slightly to one side and half-closing his eyes.  
  
"So, um, I was thinking that you and I... the two of us, I mean, we could go out   
and do something, you know... together. Well, what do you think?" He grunted,   
and softly banged his forehead against the table. "Apart from me being a   
complete idiot, of course."  
  
On the other side of the kitchen table, sitting straight up on a chair, Elvis   
turned his furry head around to one side and the other and, rolling his big   
brown eyes, whined as if in pain. He looked too much like a dog that wanted to   
be any other place but there.  
  
"Come on, boy," Kyle pleaded to him with a begging face, "help me out on this,   
will you?"  
  
With a growl of almost exasperation, the large German shepherd looked at him   
with an expression on his face that seemed to say, 'What do you want from me,   
buddy? I'm just a dog.'  
  
"I want to ask her out," Kyle told him, "but I've been playing the horny clown   
for so long with her now, that she never takes me seriously. Come on, Elvis,   
help me on this and I... I..."  
  
The dog looked at him expectantly, raising an eyebrow. "I'll arrange a date for   
you with that collie we saw in the park the other day, OK? You know, the Lassie   
look-alike?"  
  
Elvis barked out loud and jumped off of the chair, running away from the kitchen   
and leaving a surprised Kyle behind him.  
  
"Maybe it was the poodle that he liked," he muttered to himself, with a risen   
raven-black eyebrow.  
  
The large German shepherd trotted happily across the warehouse, a doggie smile   
on his face and his fat and wet pink tongue hanging out of the corner of his   
powerful jaws.  
  
After pushing gently the slightly open door of Crystal's bedroom with one of his   
front paws, he went inside, letting out a loud bark as a warning of his   
presence.  
  
The room of the red-haired witch was as spartanly decorated as the ones of the   
rest of the Archangels, with just the most functional furniture. And, as the   
only concession to her tastes, some plants and flowers that gave a few notes of   
color and life here and there.  
  
Sitting cross-legged on her bed and with an ancient-looking book in her hands,   
Crystal raised her jade-green eyes with surprise when she heard the dog entering   
into her room and jump onto the bed.  
  
"Hey," she greeted him with a soft smile, petting his furry head when he sat in   
front of her, the bed rocking slightly under his weight, "what are you doing   
here, big boy?"  
  
Groaning blissfully at the beautiful woman's ministrations, Elvis forgot for a   
second what his mission was, and just whined and licked her fingers when she   
scratched him right where he liked.  
  
But, he was a good soldier: even while Cris was a fine female specimen, she   
couldn't be compared in his mind's eye with that collie's elegant lines and   
shiny fur.  
  
Barking sharply, Elvis shook his head and took a grasp on the lower part of the   
witch's white robe with his sharp teeth, yanking softly at it with a growl and   
making her get up from the bed.  
  
"Elvis!" she exclaimed in surprise and mild amusement. "What are you doing?"  
  
Amazed at the dog's strange behavior, Cris let him guide her out of her room and   
all the way across the warehouse to the kitchen.  
  
Raising a perfect red eyebrow and letting the corner of her generous mouth   
twitch up in a hardly-seen smile, the red-haired witch was presented to a more   
than desirable view.   
  
Kyle's tight jeans-clad behind, in all its hard glory, as the tall Texan   
rummaged in search of something with his head practically embedded into the huge   
fridge.  
  
Contrary to what was believed by some people, Crystal Parker was a hot-blooded   
woman, with womanly impulses and necessities under her cold and usually   
impassive façade.  
  
Some people thought she was past such things, living almost on a spiritual   
level; and the truth was that after so much time being alone, even she was   
beginning to think that way.  
  
But she was tired of being alone.  
  
Sometimes it felt to her that she was still chained to that wall, where Xander   
had found her two years ago. Sometimes, lying on her empty bed, she thought that   
she was still being held prisoner and that her life was nothing more than a   
twisted fantasy, built to protect her from a reality too horrible to live in.  
  
The truth was that she was scared and, in order to protect herself from being   
hurt, she had carefully built a thick and resistant armor around herself, an   
armor that protected her from being harmed but that, at the same time, kept her   
cold and lonely.  
  
She wanted to break that armor, she wanted the light of the sun to filter   
through the cracks and warm her soul. And, something that surprised even   
herself, she wanted Kyle White Owl to be that sun. He was one of her very few   
weaknesses.  
  
OK, so he was sometimes obnoxious, rude, unpleasantly smartassed and, other   
times, he seemed to have the mental maturity and sexual drive of a high school   
teenager; but he was also brave, valiant, gentle, funny and a real friend.  
  
Not to mention that, as Rachel had pointed out once, he had an ass that could be   
used to crack open walnuts.  
  
Making a hard effort to hide the wide grin that image provoked in her mind,   
Crystal finally managed to pat the German Shepherd away, who just padded away to   
jump smoothly onto a chair, and leaned close to Kyle with her hands crossed   
behind her. "Are you looking for something in particular?"  
  
Startled by the sudden apparition of the red-haired witch, the tall Texan jumped   
a little and banged the back of his head on the frame of the fridge's door, his   
yelp of surprise turning into a grunt of pain. "What the-? Cris! Don't do that,   
ever!"  
  
Fighting not to giggle, Crystal took a short step back to allow the raven-haired   
tall man to get his head out of the fridge. He carefully patted the pained area   
on the top of it with the palm of his hand, putting on an expression on his   
handsome face that seemed to say 'ouch!'.  
  
After that first moment, a deep and uncomfortable silence fell between them, as   
both friends searched for something innocuous to say while wriggling on their   
feet.  
  
Looking down from the vantage point that his superior height offered him, Kyle   
found himself suddenly trapped in her wide and deep jade-green eyes and, like   
many times before, felt that breathing was suddenly a difficult matter around   
her.  
  
"Well, uh," she said, noticing, not for the first time, that his bright blue   
eyes seemed to sparkle with living, pulsating energy. And that the aura that   
only she and the few people like her were able to perceive was radiating with   
the shining green and brown tones of a healer and a warrior. "Do you want   
something from me?"  
  
Kyle arched his dark brow in surprise. "Me?" he practically squeaked. "Why?"  
  
"Well, your little friend over there," she said, pointing at a tail-wagging and   
smiling Elvis, "seemed quite eager to bring me here to you. I don't know why,   
but I just had the impression that you had sent him."  
  
Sending a weird look towards the German shepherd, the tall Texan grabbed a cold   
bottle of beer from the interior of the fridge and shook his head. "Smart move,   
dumbass," he growled to the dog between clenched teeth. Elvis just barked at   
him.  
  
"Aren't you going to offer me one of those?" she asked him, pointing at the   
bottle in his hand.  
  
Kyle just looked at her, as if she had suddenly grown a tentacle in the middle   
of her face. "You? A beer? You?"  
  
Sighing, the red-haired witch took a bottle of Spike's Guinness herself and,   
after opening it, took a short and delicate sip from it. "I'm Irish, Kyle; I was   
weaned off mother's milk with a pint."  
  
"Why is it then I haven't seen you drinking one before?" he asked with a small   
frown.  
  
She offered him a small and almost wicked smile, that shook him to the core as   
she looked at him daringly from under her long eyelashes. "Usually, it's not a   
bright idea to mix alcohol and magic. You know... stuff happens."  
  
"Stuff?"  
  
She smiled at him again. "Stuff."  
  
Raising an eyebrow with wonder, the tall Texan shook his head in amazement and,   
after softly closing the fridge's door, led the redhead out of the kitchen and   
to the rest area, where the two of them took a comfortable seat on one of the   
couches.  
  
Silently, Elvis jumped off of his chair and followed them, with his body   
practically glued to the floor.  
  
"So, what?" Cris asked him, turning around on the couch to look straight at him,   
as she leaned her head on her hand. "Are you going to tell me, or what?"  
  
Licking his lips and trying not to sound as nervous as he felt, Kyle took a   
greedy sip from his bottle and closed his eyes, gulping down the cold beer and   
breathing deeply.  
  
"Well, I, uh, I... listen, I don't know if you've noticed it but..." he bit his   
lower lip before continuing that way. "No, not that... um, if I... let's say,   
just for the sake of discussion, that I would like to go out with you, how would   
you react if I asked you?"  
  
The red-haired witch looked at him intently, through half-closed eyes.   
"Hypothetically speaking?"  
  
Kyle nodded eagerly. "Hypothetically."  
  
"Mmm, well," she said, swinging her long and curly red mane over her shoulder in   
a way that offered him a good view of her smooth and milky white neck, "before   
answering that question, I would have to know what would be the terms of the...   
meeting."  
  
He shrugged innocently. "Two friends going out to have some fun together,   
nothing strictly planned and no serious attachments or compromises at the end of   
it."  
  
"You mean dinner, a movie and no sex."  
  
The tall Texan nodded sheepishly. "Basically, something like that." Then, he   
couldn't help but give her one of his usual wide and wicked grins. "Although the   
last part is open to negotiation."  
  
Usually, Cris would have just slapped him on the back of the head and gone out.   
But this time, maybe because the lack of practice of drinking had lowered her   
tolerance and the half-bottle of beer she had consumed made her felt a little   
tipsy and daring, or maybe because she was plain tired of playing cat and mouse,   
she just looked at him with great intensity. And, smiling almost perversely, she   
waited for him to take a new sip from his bottle.  
  
"I would like to negotiate that part," she said, right when his Adam's apple   
began to move up and down in a swallowing motion.  
  
Kyle was about to choke on the beer and coughed loud and strong, his face   
turning red as a tomato as the red-haired witch dissolved into helpless giggles   
beside him. When he finally managed to give his breathing process some   
resemblance of normalcy, he looked at her in astonishment.  
  
"You little..." he exclaimed, grabbing a cushion and hitting her with it. "And   
you're the sixty-year-old, mature and centered witch?"  
  
"Stop it!" she exclaimed between uncontrolled laughs as he kept hitting her   
playfully and holding her stomach. "I'm going to pee!"  
  
The tall Texan just stopped dead, and looked at her with wide-open eyes. "OK,   
baby, that's it," he said, chuckling and taking the half-drunk bottle from her   
hands, "no more beer for you tonight."  
  
"Oooh," she protested with a pout, "spoilsport."  
  
"Well, what do you say?" he finally asked after a short moment of silence, as he   
leaned back on the couch, holding the cushion against his chest as a make-shift   
protection.  
  
"Say?" she asked with a little difficulty, suddenly discovering how interesting   
were the points of her toes sticking out of her open sandals. "About what?"  
  
He raised a raven-dark eyebrow. "Going out. With me."  
  
"Do I have your word that you'll be a gentleman?"  
  
Kyle arched his brow and rolled his eyes, as if he was thinking about it. "Well,   
um, yeah, what the heck, you have it."  
  
Smiling, the red-haired witch jumped off the couch, shaking her arms like wings   
in an effort to keep her equilibrium on her suddenly unsteady feet. "Sure. I   
would love to go out with you."  
  
Looking on in amazement as she walked away to the bedrooms, he shook his head.   
In front of him, Elvis jumped to the coffee table and looked at him expectantly.   
  
  
"Well, buddy," Kyle said, looking down at the two bottles of beer in his hands   
and, after a moment of consideration, taking a sip from Cris' one, "now I only   
have to work up the guts to really ask her out."  
  
If he had been able to do so, the large German Shepherd would have rolled his   
brown eyes and told him off. As he couldn't, he just whined as he leaned his   
head between his front paws – but, curiously enough, it sounded exactly as if he   
had said 'you're a moron'.  
  
Propping his feet on the table as he crossed his legs, Kyle just relaxed,   
leaning his head backwards and closing his eyes with a blissful smile.  
  
"Top o' the world, ma," he whispered. "Top o' the world!"  
  
~~~~~~  
  
"How is he?" Cordelia asked her red-haired friend, pointing slightly to the   
werewolf inside the cage with a soft shake of her brunette head. The hairy   
creature looked back at her and growled softly, not exactly in a menacing way   
but not in an amicable one, either.  
  
Sitting on the floor Indian-style, Willow shrugged helplessly. "Full of hair,"   
she stated deadpan before turning her head to look at her standing-up friend and   
smiling a little more brightly. "But at least I haven't had to drug him this   
time. That has to be a good sign, don't you think so?"  
  
Cordelia shrugged with an indeterminate expression. "What's up with us and   
infra-human creatures, anyway?" she asked with a chuckle. "Why can't we have   
nice, normal boyfriends?"  
  
Giggling, Willow shook her head. "It has to be love, I guess."  
  
"Yeah, either that or we should have our heads examined." The werewolf suddenly   
growled and barked at her. "Hey!" Cordelia protested, jumping back a little with   
the surprise. "Be quiet, will you?! Or I'll have to give you the flea-bath of   
your life!"  
  
Willow looked at her sideways, as he jumped up to her feet. "Don't tell him   
that, or he'll get excited."  
  
"And how do you know that?" the brunette asked with interest.  
  
Blushing a little, Willow avoided her eyes. "Well, uh, I... what are you doing?"   
she asked, pointing at the box her friend was carrying in her hands and   
blatantly trying to change the subject.  
  
Shaking her head with amusement, Cordelia led Willow to the front part of the   
store and placed the box on the counter. "It's a new shipment of ewww-things   
that I still haven't had time to open and catalogue, but now," she said taking a   
short look at her wristwatch, "it's like they'll have to wait until tomorrow.   
Xander will pick me up soon. That's if that ditz-brain hasn't forgotten, of   
course."  
  
Willow chuckled softly, shaking her head. At least, it was comforting to see   
that some things never changed. "I can do it for you, if you like," she offered.  
  
"You sure?" Cordelia asked hopefully. "I mean, you don't have to do it if you   
don't want to."  
  
The redhead shrugged with a small smile. "Why not? I'll recruit Spike's help,   
it'll give us something to do tonight."  
  
"Spike, huh?" the brunette said, sending a curious look towards her. "I see..."  
  
"What is that supposed to mean?" Willow asked, noticing the tone in Cordelia's   
words.  
  
The brunette shook her head, without being able to hide an amused smile.   
"Nothing, just that it seems that you and Spike are doing a lot of things   
together lately."  
  
"Well, there's nothing strange about it," she explained with a small shrug,   
"we're friends."  
  
Cordelia looked at her with incredulity. "Yeah, and the fact that he is like,   
y'know, drop-dead gorgeous has nothing to do with it, huh?"  
  
"Who? Spike?" Willow snorted, making an strange gesture with her lips, as if she   
didn't know what she was talking about. "I so don't know what you're talking   
about."  
  
"Hey! There's nothing bad about it!" the brunette calmed her down, patting her   
hand. "I mean, there's nothing bad about looking through the window of the   
butcher's shop, as long as you don't enter it and buy the salami."  
  
"Buy? What do you...?" Willow shook her head in confusion for a few moments,   
before getting her metaphor. Then she blushed furiously, her face turning the   
same color of her hair. "Oh! Oh! I mean, oh! I-I, I mean, I have a boyfriend,   
Cordy!"  
  
The brunette nodded in agreement. "Yeah, and Spike has a nice hard booty under   
those tight black jeans he wears all the time."  
  
"I hadn't noticed," she softly muttered from behind her hands, which she was   
using to cover her reddened and burning cheeks and ears, feeling too much like a   
big fat liar. After all, she had noticed. "I'm in love with Oz."  
  
Cordelia laughed good-naturedly, hugging her ashamed friend. "I know that,   
Wills, I'm just teasing you!"  
  
The redhead sent her a murderous look, and the taller young woman shook her head   
with amusement. "Listen, it's normal to feel attracted to others, it's just   
human nature. And Spike... well, look at him, he's dark, dangerous and   
absolutely gorgeous. What woman wouldn't look at him and think 'Hey, I would   
love to do him a favor'?"  
  
"But I don't want to!" Willow protested with little conviction. "Be attracted, I   
mean. He's my friend, as weird as it sounds, and Oz and me... we're in love,   
we've fought long and hard for our relationship... I-I just can't be attracted   
to Spike."  
  
This time, Cordelia looked at her with more seriousness. "Willow, I don't know   
if this is really my business, but you and Oz are my friends, and I guess that   
so is Spike, so I'm going to give you my advice: don't try to ignore those   
feelings, don't suppress them."  
  
She continued, "Try to sort them out, because if you just bury them deep inside   
they're going to do nothing more than to put down roots. And you know what they   
say, there's nothing sweeter than the taste of forbidden fruit. Above all, don't   
obsess about it, Wills. It's not so big a deal."  
  
The red-haired young woman just sighed, leaning her head on the counter. "Why   
can't things be easier?"  
  
"That's one of the great mysteries of life, along with the formula for   
Coca-Cola," Cordelia said, rubbing her friend's back in soothing circles. That   
was when the large window of the store, and practically the rest of it, began to   
tremble with the roar of an approaching group of powerful engines. "Look, the   
guys are here."  
  
A few seconds later, the front door opened and Xander and Spike came into the   
store, the younger vampire making a bee-line to his girlfriend and giving her a   
bear hug that raised her from the floor.  
  
"Xander!" she exclaimed, giggling helplessly when the young vampire spun her   
around wildly. "You're going to ruin my clothes."  
  
"Oh, please!" Spike grunted, holding his gut as if in pain when they kissed long   
and lovingly. "Me diabetes 'n all."  
  
"Jealous much?" Xander asked him after depositing Cordelia on the floor.  
  
The bleached-hair vampire made a face at him and surrounded Willow's shoulders   
with his arm, bringing her close to him. Surprised and not expecting the   
movement, the redhead stumbled with her own feet and ended with her face buried   
in Spike's chest.  
  
=He smells clean and animalistic at the same time,= she thought. And he also had   
a nice set of muscles on his abdomen and waist, she noticed, when she took a   
hold on him for support.  
  
"Jealous? Me?" he exclaimed with incredulity, "Ah! But I got me own li'l sock   
puppet o' love, don't I, Red?"  
  
She then felt ashamed of herself, at the images suddenly running through her   
mind. =Bad, bad Willow,= she thought, wishing she could kick her own butt,   
=don't think naughty things about Spike!=  
  
"Well, uh, I-I, sure, you, I," she chuckled nervously, fighting to free herself   
from the vampire's hug. "W-what are your plans for tonight?"  
  
The two brunettes exchanged a knowing look, and both of them smiled at Willow's   
lack of comfort. "Nothing fancy," Xander told her, "dinner and a movie, and then   
some dancing at the Bronze."  
  
"No Slayage?" the redhead asked with surprise.  
  
The young vampire shrugged. "I'm hoping to have a light night for a change," he   
wished, "and I hope not to be jinxing it by saying that. C'mon Cordy, Michael   
and Rachel are waiting outside. You got your helmet?"  
  
The brunette nodded and took the black and red decorated helmet that Xander had   
given her as a gift from under the counter. Holding it under one arm, she   
surrounded the young vampire's waist with the other. "Do you know where   
everything is?" she asked Willow as an afterthought, when they were already   
walking out. "The keys and such?"  
  
Willow nodded, and offered her a small smile. "Yeah, don't worry about it, I   
know how to close up and work the alarm, I've done it before. Just go out and   
try to have some fun, OK?"  
  
"Well, uh, just don't you let Spike break anything or Giles will take it out of   
my pay," she added while Xander practically dragged her outside.  
  
"Hey!" the bleached-hair vampire protested with a frown.  
  
"Have a good night!" Xander told them, finally succeeding in getting his   
girlfriend out of the store.  
  
"Same here!" Spike shouted back. "And take care, mate. Be careful, if ya know   
what I mean."  
  
Xander nodded sharply at him and gave him a crooked half-smile. "Don't I   
always?"  
  
"Don't yank at my tongue..."  
  
With a final smile, the young vampire surrounded Cordelia's shoulders with his   
arm and the two of them got out for a night of light fun, finally leaving Spike   
and Willow alone.  
  
Almost immediately, they looked at each other, a curious cloud formed by a   
mixture of expectancy, dread and joy floating between them. "Well, what now?"   
the redhead asked.  
  
The bleached-hair vampire shrugged. "I guess a game of strip-poker's completely   
out of the question?"  
  
Willow sighed, rolled her eyes and finally smiled. "Come on," she told him,   
pushing his leather-covered back into the back room. "I swear I don't know what   
I'm going to do with you, Spike."  
  
He arched his brow with a leery smile. "Well, strip-poker could give ya some   
ideas."  
  
"Spike?"  
  
"Yeah, luv?"  
  
"Shut up."  
  
~~~~~~  
  
Flying over the asphalt a couple of hours later, it seemed that the electric   
lamps that illuminated the dark streets of Sunnydale were nothing more than   
bright flashes of light, as they passed beside them.  
  
That, mixed with the almost animal roar of the engines and the howl of the wind   
against their bodies, conjured a scenario of primal impulses that was making the   
adrenaline pump into their veins like a pure and exhilarating drug. The speed,   
the wind, the sensation of freedom... it was like riding on a bolt of lightning.  
  
Sitting behind Xander, with her arms holding her tight against her lover's back,   
Cordelia felt like shouting with joy. The first time she had ridden with Xander   
on his bike, she had thought that it was like sharing a horse with the Devil, so   
fast and daringly did the young vampire drive his Yamaha.  
  
But as she had gotten accustomed to it she had discovered with surprise that,   
more than tolerating it, she was even enjoying the feeling of the wind in her   
face (her helmet didn't have a windshield), the adrenaline in her veins, the   
fast pace of her heart inside her chest and the blur of the asphalt passing   
below the front wheel of the bike. It was almost as good as sex.  
  
Well, almost.  
  
Leaning her head on Xander's broad back and tightening her grasp around his   
torso, Cordelia looked at Michael and Rachel, who were riding on their own bike   
just a couple of feet at their right and behind them.  
  
If Xander was a good biker, Rachel wasn't far behind him and, as Cordelia looked   
at her, the brunette Immortal accelerated her Suzuki and the fast-looking bike   
quickly gained speed until it reached their own position.  
  
She smiled and winked an eye to them while Michael, behind her, seemed to be   
about to puke. His face was a poem, ghastly white and with his dark blue eyes   
about to pop out of their sockets.  
  
'Help,' he wordlessly mouthed towards her, making the young brunette laugh.  
  
=Men, they're all the same,= she thought. Having a powerful machine between   
their legs was good, as long as they were the ones in control – but, if you took   
that away from them, they were reduced to a trembling blob of jelly.  
  
"Hey, Xandman!" Rachel called the young vampire over the howl of the wind and   
the roar of the engines. "How do you feel about a little sprint to the Bronze?"  
  
"Sprint?" Michael squeaked with a panicked face. "You mean as in faster than   
this?"  
  
Xander looked at Cordelia over his shoulder for a brief moment and from behind   
his wide-open windshield. "What do you say, Cor? Are you up to a little speed   
and unnecessary risk?"  
  
The brunette flashed a bright smile to him. "Let's kick their old butts!"  
  
"Catch us!" Xander shouted to Rachel, turning back to her and accelerating. "If   
you can!"  
  
The huge four-cylinder engine of Xander's black Yamaha roared like an unleashed   
beast, and they were practically launched forward inside a cloud of smoke and   
burnt rubber, quickly leaving the two Immortals behind them.  
  
"Damn cheaters!" Rachel exclaimed, speeding on their trail as she leaned forward   
over the bike's tiny windshield in a more aerodynamic posture.  
  
"Rachel, uh, mon amour," Michael moaned behind her, "do you really think is a   
wise thing to dooooo??!!!"  
  
His question turned in to a scream of pure panic when, taking advantage of the   
long and quite empty avenue in front of them, the brunette reached the 120 mph   
mark and passed the younger couple like a lightning bolt. "Oh, mon dieu!!"  
  
The French Immortal looked over her shoulder and found that Xander had the front   
wheel of his muscular Vmax 1200 practically inches away from their rear one, as   
he used them as a shield against the wind resistance.  
  
Although the young vampire's Yamaha was more powerful and had a higher top   
speed, it was way heavier and less agile than Rachel's light RF600R. And, when   
the avenue ended and the curves finally came, they found themselves at quite the   
same level.  
  
Michael's panic grew exponentially as did their cruising speed and, every time   
he saw the hard asphalt coming dangerously close to their heads with each curve   
they took, he let out a girly yelp of fear.  
  
=It's stupid,= he thought – he had been riding on motorbikes for decades, and   
had done quite crazy things himself. But, somehow, riding in the back seat added   
a new perspective to the whole matter.  
  
Finally, and mercifully for Michael's mental health, they reached the last long   
street before arriving at the Bronze almost at the same time. And, taking   
advantage of the superior power of his engine, Xander gave a last squeeze to the   
gas gear and passed by Rachel's Suzuki, arriving at the parking of the club with   
a couple of meters ahead his Immortal friends.  
  
"Look!" he exclaimed with a playful tone, looking at them over his shoulder   
after taking out his helmet. "The mighty snails."  
  
"Go to Hell, Xander," Rachel growled at him with a murderous look, while she   
parked beside them and killed the engine. "Wait until I get that new Triumph we   
saw last week, and then we'll see who's the fastest around here."  
  
"When that time comes," Michael said, hurrying in dismounting from the bike and   
smoothing his tousled light-brown hair after taking off his helmet, "I think   
I'll take a polite step away, and let you compete to see who is the craziest   
around here."  
  
"Oh, come on, Michael," Cordelia told him with a twisted and challenging smile,   
"Don't tell me you prefer that transatlantic you call a car, to the   
adrenaline-kicking feeling of riding with the wind in your hair and the..."  
  
She noticed the stares of her three friends directed at her, and blinked in   
confusion. "What?"  
  
"Please, excuse her," Xander told the Immortal couple, "she's been watching too   
much TV lately. Ouch!" he exclaimed when she slapped his shoulder. "Well, what   
do you say? Do we finish the night with a little dancing?"  
  
"Sure," Michael said as the two couples walked to the entrance of the Bronze.   
"Now, here we have something in which I can kick your asses. I'm the lord of the   
dance!"  
  
"I gotta warn you that I don't think they play minuets here," Cordelia observed,   
leaning on her boyfriend's shoulder in much the same way Rachel was doing with   
hers. "You know, dance and music have experienced some minor changes since the   
17th century."  
  
The French Immortal mocked her with exaggerated surprise. "You don't say! You   
know, Cordy, for being the one who chose tonight's movie, you shouldn't be so   
smartassed."  
  
"I liked it," Xander went to his girlfriend's defense, gaining a smile of   
gratitude from her. "It wasn't so bad."  
  
Michael arched his brow dramatically, and showed a smile full of deep sarcasm.   
"Oh, you did? What a surprise, mon ami!"  
  
"Come on, Xander," Rachel told him with a mischievous grin, "we were sitting   
beside you and we didn't need to pay much attention to hear the 'mmms' and the   
'aahs', and neither did the rest of the theatre. I mean, I'm not against   
smoochies, but there was a point where I was thinking in telling the two of you   
to get a room."  
  
"As if you behaved any better," Cordelia protested. "'Oh, Michael,'" she   
mimicked the brunette Immortal, "'that's it, right there, ooooh. You're the   
best, baby.'" Both women burst out in laughter, and their two boyfriends shared   
a look of resignation.  
  
"Anyway," the aforementioned French Immortal continued after the laughter had   
finally subdued, "although all of us managed to have a good time in the cinema,   
you have to admit that it wasn't thanks to the movie they were playing."  
  
He snorted. "I mean, 'I Keep On Knowing What You Did Last Summer'? What kind of   
title is that? And the argument? The man with the hook recruits the help of his   
second-grade cousin to cast revenge upon Jennifer Love Hewitt and Freddie   
Prinze, Jr.? Puh-leaze, even I could have come up with a better story!"  
  
"I will admit that Kevin Williamson is quickly running out of ideas," Cordelia   
agreed, "but Freddie was cute."  
  
Throwing her a playful look, Xander growled at that, making her giggle. "I just   
can't stand that guy since I saw 'She's All That'." The young vampire shivered,   
making a face. "There's something about that movie that just gives me the   
wiggins."  
  
As the four friends kept laughing and joking amongst themselves, they finally   
entered the club and were received by the loud blast of the music coming out of   
the speakers and the unmistakable smell of human sweat and teenage hormones   
almost like a physical slap in their faces.  
  
"At least it's warmer in here," Rachel observed as they made their way between   
the gathered crowd of teenagers.  
  
"Mon dieu," Michael muttered, watching at the swaying bodies on the dance floor   
and at all of the young faces, "I feel like I'm three centuries older than all   
of these people."  
  
"You are three centuries older than all of these people," Xander told him, with   
a soft slap on his friend's shoulder. Michael just looked at him with hostility   
and, after a few moments, they exchanged an amused smile.  
  
They wasted no time in getting a table and, feeling almost overwhelmed by the   
drastic change of temperature from the cold December night outside to the way   
warmer interior of the Bronze, they took off their coats.  
  
Xander called the attention of Chuck, the waiter, and ordered a round of soft   
drinks for all of them. That night, even when there wasn't a live band on the   
stage, the DJ seemed to be in a kind of frenzy, so loud and hard was the music   
playing.  
  
"You look good," Cordelia told Michael, taking a long look at his attire,   
composed by a v-necked light blue sweater and dark Levi's. "And it's nice to see   
you out of a suit for a change."  
  
"Well, you know, ma chèrie," he told her with his most charming smile, "it's not   
the clothes, but the person inside that counts."  
  
"Ahem!" Xander coughed with a risen eyebrow, "before you begin to think of   
hitting on my girlfriend," he said, getting up from his chair and taking   
Cordelia's hand, "I think I'll have a dance with her."  
  
"That sounds like a good idea," Rachel agreed, imitating her vampire friend and,   
grabbing her own boyfriend's hand, yanking at it until she succeeded in making   
him get up from his seat.  
  
"Come on, Michael, don't make me beg," she pouted at him.  
  
Sighing, the French Immortal rolled his dark blue eyes and finally and   
half-heartedly allowed her to drag him to the dance floor.  
  
"Look at all these people," he whispered at her when they finally began to move   
to the rhythm of the loud music, "they're all so... young."  
  
"You know that age is in the heart," she whispered back to him, her hips moving   
rhythmically to the quick beat. Even when she wasn't wearing any especially sexy   
clothes, both her jeans and blouse were tight enough to show her splendid   
figure, and more than one hormonal teenager's face turned to look at her with a   
mouth-watering expression.  
  
With a smile, Michael moved closer to her and laid his hands possessively on her   
waist, moving along with her. "You're breaking more than one heart tonight, ma   
chèrie."  
  
The brunette leaned her arms on his shoulders and, as the Frenchman's mouth came   
closer to hers, she let her lips extent into a wide and precious smile. "And   
what about yours, Jean-Michel?"  
  
Michael closed his lips on hers in a deep and soul-sealing kiss that grew hotter   
and more passionate until both of them had to stop it before they completely   
lost control of their actions. "You know that mon coeur belongs only to you, mon   
amour. It's yours to break it if you want."  
  
Leaning even closer to him, getting lost in his impossibly bottomless dark blue   
eyes, Rachel shook her head softly. "It's mine to protect, love. I would never   
harm you – you know that, don't you?"  
  
Michael nodded softly and the two of them remained in the middle of the dance   
floor, lost in each others eyes as they moved softly, oblivious to the rest of   
jumping and swaying youngsters around them.  
  
"Look at them," Cordelia whispered at Xander's ear with a bright smile. "Aren't   
they sweet?"  
  
Xander smiled, feeling his troubled heart lightened at seeing his friends'   
happiness. "They deserve it, they've gone through a lot of troubles and danger   
together. Being happy and in love is the least the Powers-That-Be could do for   
them."  
  
"And what about you?" she softly asked, looking at his brown eyes as they moved   
softly, not very differently from what their friends were doing just a couple of   
meters away. "Don't you deserve a little happiness of your own?"  
  
The young vampire shrugged with a small smile, that was more of sadness than   
joy. "I'm happy."  
  
"Liar." She shook her head slowly, before leaning her forehead against his   
colder one. "You're here with me, and yet your mind is like a thousand miles   
away. You can't fool me, Xander Harris," she cut him off before he could   
protest, "you've been like that all night. During dinner, and even when we were   
making out in the cinema."  
  
"You know me too well," he chuckled, avoiding her stare. "I'm sorry."  
  
"Hey," she softly called him, cupping his chin and making him look straight into   
her eyes, "look at me. You don't have anything to feel sorry about, Xander. I   
know that these are like way hard times for you. I just want you to know, that   
you don't have to hide your feelings. Not from me, at least."  
  
"I know that," he said, managing a small smile just for her. "I just don't want   
to bring you down here with me. It a lonely place, Cordy, dark and cold. I don't   
want you to be there."  
  
"But I want to be. Wherever you go, wherever you are, I want to go and be with   
you."  
  
At Xander's stubborn shake of his head, Cordelia just sighed with   
resignation. "We don't have to talk about this right now, if you don't   
want. I just want you to know that you're not alone, Xander. While you   
have me, you won't ever be alone. Never."  
  
This time, when the young vampire smiled, his face really lit up with the warmth   
of the love he felt for the woman in his arms. "I love you, but I just don't   
want to think too much about anything right now, Cordy. Can we just dance a   
little?"  
  
Cordelia smiled understandingly. "That's OK," she whispered, getting closer to   
him. So much in fact that their bodies practically merged together. Then, slow   
and tenderly, she kissed him on his lips. "And I love you."  
  
Xander just smiled again and, without uttering any more words, they kept on   
dancing slowly at the rhythm of their own feelings.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
"Is this your idea of a nice date?" Faith growled at the sandy-haired young man.   
Grasping the metallic banister with her two hands so strongly that it seemed   
about to snap, the former Slayer leaned on it intensely.  
  
Her brown eyes were nailed like daggers on the young couple dancing in the   
ground floor level of the club, so close together that they seemed to be about   
to become one single being. "You have a goddamn twisted sense of humor."  
  
"I go walking down there  
I go searching down there  
There's nothing left from you and me  
  
I go walking down there  
I go searching down there  
But nobody there remembers me"  
  
If anyone could have seen her face clearly in the dim semidarkness that filled   
the second floor of the Bronze, they would have probably turned around and run   
away as fast as their legs could carry them.  
  
That was because Faith's face was twisted in a grimace of rage and hate that   
made her beauty vanish as if it had never existed, as the demon inside her   
growled and moved around. Its claws ripped at the soul encased in her body,   
making it bleed and cry.  
  
Her Xander. With the Bitch.  
  
She wanted to go down there. She wanted to rip open the woman's chest and tear   
her beating heart out. She had to do it, had to break the spell the Bitch had   
cast over her loved one. Free him from her claws, show him what was the true   
nature of things.  
  
Killing her. Loving him. It was all the same thing.  
  
His blood. Her blood. One. The same.  
  
She would destroy the Bitch and claim the dark one as her own. It was not only   
her duty as his sire, but her joy as his soon-to-be unholy bride.  
  
"It doesn't matter now to me  
Since I lost my baby  
Nothing means that much to me  
Without my baby anyway"  
  
Damon leaned close to her from behind, his larger hands covering hers on the   
metallic banister as his arms surrounded her and his chest leaned on her back.   
He felt the stiffness of her stance, only betrayed by the slight trembling of   
her hands, and understood that the brunette vampiress was barely controlling her   
rage.  
  
=Good, it'll make things easier in the long run,= he thought.  
  
"They look happy, don't you think?" he whispered in her ear, leaning his chin on   
her bare shoulder as he nuzzled her dark mane of hair with his nose. He trapped   
a cold earlobe with his teeth and bit it gently, as he lavished it with the   
point of his tongue.  
  
When Faith growled at his contact, she surprised herself on finding that it was   
a mix of rage and excitement.  
  
She felt hate towards almost every living being inside this building, that was   
true; but, although she would never admit it, it was no less certain that she   
envied them almost with the same intensity.  
  
"Oh-oh! Oh-oh!  
Look at all you lucky people,  
Think about the things you do!  
Look at all you happy people,  
I wish I could be like you!  
Oh-oh! Oh-oh! Oh-oh!"  
  
"I'm just not in the mood for that," she told Damon simply, when he felt the   
young man grinding his pelvis against the soft curve of her perfect behind.  
  
The young hit man just chuckled with real amusement, getting even closer to her,   
if such thing was possible. When he spoke, he did it softly and close to her   
ear. "One of these days, someone will have to explain me what it is that all you   
women see in Xander. I've always thought he was nothing more than a loser."  
  
The former Slayer looked at him over her shoulder, with her eyes wide open with   
surprise. "You know him?"  
  
"I go walking down there  
I go searching down there  
There's nothing left from you and me  
  
It doesn't matter now to me  
Since I lost my baby  
Nothing means that much to me  
Without my baby anyway"  
  
Damon smiled back at her and showed her his left hand, which had his index and   
ring fingers crossed. "There was a time, not so long ago, that we were as close   
as this," he told her with an edged smile. "It's the lost puppy act, isn't it?   
You girls all fall for that humbug."  
  
"You don't know him," she said almost maniacally, centering her eyes again on   
the figure of her childe. "It's the way he knows, it's the way he understands.   
He's special."  
  
The sandy-haired young man chuckled again, shaking his head again before leaning   
his chin on Faith's shoulder. "I think it's you who doesn't really know him,   
sweetheart."  
  
"And you do?" she asked with deep sarcasm.  
  
"Yeah, I do. Look at him," he said with a mesmerizing low tone, pointing at him   
with a soft nod, "how do you think he feels right now, dancing with that girl   
who isn't you?"  
  
Faith growled and tried to extricate herself from Damon's enveloping arms but   
found, much to her own surprise, that the young man was way stronger than what   
he looked.  
  
"Easy, woman," he harshly commanded the former Slayer, grabbing her by the   
forearms and keeping her back against his chest. "Do you think he's having a   
lousy time? Or that he's thinking on how much he loves being with that sexy girl   
over there?"  
  
"Oh-oh! Oh-oh!  
Look at all you lucky people,  
Look at all the things you do!  
Look at all you happy people,  
I wish I could be like you!"  
  
Faith's growl turned into a moan of heartfelt pain, she was unable to take her   
eyes away from the image of Xander and Cordelia dancing together. She couldn't   
help but witness their shared joy, and the happiness that just being together   
seemed to bring to the both of them.  
  
The brunette young woman whispered something into the young dark-haired man and   
he laughed out loud, his whole expression brightening with joy. Then he took her   
into his strong arms and, lifting her from the floor, made her spin around.  
  
Cordelia's giggles and high-pitched squeals of joy could be heard even over   
Chris Isaak's loud voice.  
  
"He loves her," the vampiress whispered, blood-red tears rolling down her   
cheeks. "He's not even thinking about me. He loves her."  
  
Behind her, Damon's mouth extended into a large and extremely satisfied evil   
smile.  
  
"Look at all your smiling faces,  
Think about the things you've done!  
Look at all you happy people,  
And I've lost my only one!  
Oh-oh! Oh-oh! Oh-o-oh..."  
  
"He doesn't deserve you," he whispered in her ear. "I know him. I've seen him in   
action, Faith, and I know what kind of things he can do. Whatever you think he   
feels, whatever way you think he is, it's just an illusion."  
  
As the music died and the lights around them seemed to weaken, surrounding them   
in a halo of darkness, Damon made her turn around gently. Cupping her cheeks in   
his warm hands and wiping her tears with his thumbs, he locked his amazing black   
eyes with her brown ones.  
  
"He's a liar, Faith, and a very good one. I know him, he can deceive even his   
closest friends, show them a completely different face than his real one. You   
don't know him, that girl over there doesn't know him; nobody really knows what   
or who he really is."  
  
Faith shook her head stubbornly. "You're lying to me," she mumbled raggedly,   
turning her back on him again.  
  
Damon raised an eyebrow and surrounded her thin waist with his arms, interlacing   
his fingers over her flat belly. "And what would I gain by doing that?"  
  
"I don't know," she said, shaking her head, "but he's mine. It's that... that   
bitch," she spat with a tone full of venom. "She's the one who's taking him away   
from me. She's the one who's poisoning his mind."  
  
Damon sighed, rolling his eyes. =Vampires, they're all the same,= the man   
thought. =Once a thought enters their brains, it's impossible to get it out.=  
  
"And what are you going to do about it?" he asked.  
  
"I'm going to kill her," she whispered, her tone the one of maniac certainty.   
"Once she's dead, he'll be free to be with me."  
  
"And if that doesn't work?"  
  
Faith's grasp on the banister was so strong, that the metal began to fold   
between her hands. "If he isn't mine, he won't be anybody's."  
  
Damon just smiled at hearing this and, leaning closer to her, planted a big kiss   
on her cheek. "That's my girl."  
  
"Let's do it now!" the former Slayer growled, looking at her companion with   
feverish eyes.  
  
Damon blinked repeatedly, caught with his guard down. "Now? You mean as in right   
this instant?"  
  
Faith nodded with a big smile and, when she began to walk away, the sandy-haired   
man had to reach out for her. Grabbing her by the shoulder, he stopped her from   
going any further. "I don't think that's a good idea."  
  
"Don't you ever try to stop me!" she growled at him, her eyes red-gold and her   
fangs showing under her upper lip.  
  
"Hey! Hey!" he smiled, raising his hands in surrender. "Take it easy, baby! I   
just don't want you to make any faux pas here. If you go down there right now,   
you are dead meat, Faith." He shook his head and smiled with sarcasm. "Well, you   
know what I mean."  
  
The former Slayer looked at him, through half-closed eyes. "Do you think I can't   
take that bitch down?"  
  
"Sure you could. In a second. And I know that he couldn't stop you, because the   
childe-sire link would leave him as frozen as an ice-cube the moment he saw   
you," he told her with a smile.  
  
"Then, what's stopping me from walking down there and eating her damn heart?"  
  
Shaking his head, Damon surrounded her shoulder with his arm and brought her   
back to the banister. "You have to be more careful, young grasshopper; what do   
you see?"  
  
"I see them," she growled with loathing. "And a bunch of hysterical kids."  
  
"And what about that couple over there?" he asked, pointing at Michael and   
Rachel. "The older one."  
  
"What about them?" she shrugged with disinterest. "He's quite handsome, but they   
don't seem special to me."  
  
The young hit man barely suppressed a dry laugh. "Well, they certainly are,   
baby. You see, that precious brunette would shred you to pieces before you even   
knew what was happening."  
  
Tilting his head to one side, Damon took a few seconds to admire Rachel's   
perfect and shapely behind as she moved at the rhythm of the music. As always,   
it was a view to be enjoyed.  
  
"And what about him?" Faith asked, more interested now. "He looks quite...   
tasty."  
  
Damon let a half-smile cross his lips for a moment and then leaned on the   
banister, just beside the former Slayer, and looked at Michael Deveraux with   
appreciative eyes.  
  
"Him? Well... you'd see him coming, but that's just because he's way too much of   
a gentleman to hit a woman without having properly introduced himself first. But   
after that..." Damon shook his head, "...you'd only feel pain."  
  
Noticing the tone of sincere admiration in the young man's voice, Faith looked   
at him sideways. "You seem to like him."  
  
"Like him?" he let out a dry laugh and then, for a moment so short that Faith   
doubted it had even existed, his face lost his charming crooked expression,   
becoming so bitter and resentful that made her stomach turn around with   
surprise.  
  
"He's the person that I loved the most in my whole life." He sighed, almost   
painfully, and a bitter smile came to his lips.  
  
"It's curious," the hit man whispered.  
  
"What?" an intrigued Faith asked him.  
  
Damon shrugged. "I hadn't thought about it before, but it's quite ironic.   
Everything I am is what he made me, and each decision that's led me to this   
point was taken because of him, and now... now I'm going to kill him. It's...   
well, it's ironic."  
  
The two of them remained in silence for a few moments, submerged in their own   
thoughts, until Faith finally broke it. "So, we're not going to kill them."  
  
Without looking straight at her, the young hit man shook his head. "Not the   
place, not the time."  
  
"But I want to kill them," she protested with a childish pout. "Life is so   
unfair."  
  
This time, Damon's laughter was real and sincere. "Come on, baby," she told her,   
surrounding her shoulder with his arm, "let's go take a walk. You still have to   
do me a favor."  
  
Faith moaned in disgust. "Can I have a quick snack at least?"  
  
Damon shrugged absent-mindedly, and he looked at her like a father consenting a   
little fancy to his daughter. "Sure, but only one, OK?"  
  
The former Slayer jumped softly on the spot, clapping her hands with joy and   
kissed him sweetly on the cheek. "Thanks, you're so great, Damon."  
  
The aforementioned young man rolled his eyes as she rounded his waist, and they   
walked together to the nearest exit too much like a normal couple. "What would   
you prefer?"  
  
"Something exotic." Faith scanned the crowd until she spotted a young Oriental   
boy. No more than sixteen years old, he was incredibly handsome, with piercing   
dark eyes and black raven hair.  
  
With a mouth-watering smile, the former Slayer began to practically drag her   
companion towards him. "I think it's going to be Chinese tonight."  
  
~~~~~~  
  
To be continued... 


	6. Part 6 of 8

DR2 - The Cross of Changes by Nick Midian, Book II, part 6 of 8   
  
Written by Nick Midian   
  
Content beta-reading and storyline suggestions by Duncan  
English grammar, spelling, slang, Highlander continuity and general corrections   
by Theo  
French slang, content beta-reading and storyline suggestions by Mash  
French slang by Alan  
  
  
EMAIL: jcaballero@euskalnet.net  
  
WEBSITE: http://www.angelfire.com/tv2/thedarkages  
  
SPOILERS: For Buffy the Vampire Slayer: 3rd season, BUT no Xander/Willow kissing   
and no Lover's Walk (welcome to the wonderful State of Denial, Land of   
'Shippiness). Hmmm, I've messed with the third season's timeline to accommodate   
it to my necessities. Let's just say that 'Band Candy' happened a lot later than   
it did, around the first days of February, OK?  
For Highlander: None really, the characters of the TV series and films are only   
tangentially mentioned. You just need to know the basics of Highlander-style   
immortality, BUT I've always thought that whole 'Immortals have no parents and   
are found in a little basket' is a... um, the Spanish word for it is 'chorrada',   
so let's just ignore it, OK?  
KEYWORDS: Romance, Angst, Action-adventure, Violence, Alternate Universe,   
Crossover.  
RATING: PG-13 with some mild R parts for violence and sexual innuendo.  
DISCLAIMER: This story has been written with no intention of profit, merely for   
the pleasure of writing and sharing it.  
The concept and characters of BTVS (Buffy, Angel, Cordelia, Xander, Willow, Oz,   
Giles, Joyce, Spike, Drusilla, Snyder, Faith, Harmony, Lyle Gorch, Quentin   
Travers and the rest) are intellectual and legal property of Joss Whedon, Warner   
Brothers, Mutant Enemy, etc. Also, the concept of Highlander and the characters   
mentioned here (Duncan MacLeod, Amanda Darieux, Richie Ryan, Joe Dawson and the   
Society of Watchers) are the property of Panzer-Davis and Rysher Entertainment.  
Michael Deveraux, Rachel Curran, Crystal Parker, Kyle White Owl, Robert   
Coltrane, Elvis the Dog, Broderick Egoyan, Damon Frost, Mr. Smith, the World   
Committee for Civil Defense and the rest are my own creation.  
All the songs and lyrics here are used without permission, they are copyright of   
their respective rights owners.  
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Please, understand that English is not my native language, so   
any grammatical or spelling errors are my fault, not of any one of my wonderful   
beta-readers. If you're thinking of sending any flames, please be kind with me.   
I'm a grown man, but I still can cry like a child, believe me.  
Additional Author's Note: The songs performed by Oz's band are 'Loli Jackson'   
and 'Serenade' by Dover. It appears courtesy of Subterfuge records. All rights   
reserved, yadda, yadda, yadda...   
SUMMARY: After the events in 'Dark Reflection' a new threat menaces both the   
Slayerettes and the Archangels as new and old enemies come to Sunnydale, merging   
past and present. This time, it's something personal - ta-da-da-dam!!! (sorry,   
but I just had to say that)  
  
And now, on with the show. Fasten your seat belts ladies and gentlemen, because   
it's going to be a long, hard and jumpy ride...   
  
~~~~~~  
  
The cast for Book II  
  
  
Nicholas Brendon as Xander Harris  
Charisma Carpenter as Cordelia Chase  
  
Sarah Michelle Gellar as Buffy Summers  
David Boreanaz as Angel  
Alyson Hannigan as Willow Rosenberg  
Seth Green as Daniel 'Oz' Osborne  
Anthony Stewart Head as Rupert Giles  
Kristine Sutherland as Joyce Summers  
  
Matthew Perry as Michael Deveraux  
Paula Trickey as Rachel Curran  
James Marsters as Spike  
Nikki Cox as Crystal Parker  
David James Elliott as Kyle White Owl  
Elvis the Dog as Himself  
  
Eliza Dushku as Faith Adams  
Donald Sutherland as The Old Chess Player, Broderick Egoyan  
Sebastian Spence as Damon Frost  
Avery Brooks as Mr. Smith  
  
Mercedes MacNab as Harmony Kendall  
Armin Shimerman as Principal Snyder  
Amy Chance as Aphrodesia  
Persia White as Aura  
  
Alan Rickman as Conrad Swann  
Wesley Snipes as Talon Pantera  
Dennis Rodman as Rush Pantera  
Tom Berenger as Colonel Cabbot Ashe  
Michael Ironside as the Sergeant  
Trevor Goddard as Backlash  
Shaquille O'Neal as Beast  
Jet Li as Bushido  
  
with  
  
Kevin Spacey as Robert Coltrane  
Nicholas Lea as Jonah Whalls  
and  
Catherine Zeta-Jones as the Lady in Red  
  
~~~~~~  
  
The werewolf moved around, inside his cage. He was nervous, excited, and,   
somewhere inside his hairy body, quite angry. He growled and scratched the   
ground with his talons, drawing long scars on the wooden floor that passed   
almost unnoticed between the web of old ones that extended along the interior of   
the cage like a rugged tapestry.  
  
For a moment, he stopped his slow pacing and, leaning his sharp snout against   
the wire-enclosed fence, looked at the couple in the adjacent room with his   
yellow eyes.  
  
There was something wrong going on with them, and he could feel it.  
  
Of course, in his actual state under the effect of the full moon, Daniel Osborne   
wasn't really able to conjure rational thoughts that were beyond what his   
limited animal mind could manage. But as true as that was, he could feel other   
sensations that no human could ever perceive.  
  
His nose, his ears, his eyes... they were sharp and edged, and they were able to   
tell him a thousand things that would pass unnoticed to any mortal man.  
  
And he didn't like what his senses were telling him at that very moment. Not at   
all.  
  
There was his mate, the one that he had chosen to be his life companion, his   
partner in the hunt and the bearer of his brood.  
  
And she was with another male. One that wasn't himself.  
  
The werewolf growled softly, slightly baring his long and ivory-white canines at   
the couple. Her heart was beating faster than what should be normal, and he   
could smell the bittersweet aroma of their perspiration in the air, mixed with   
something that was raw and more primal.  
  
Pheromones. Floating in the air, singing a siren's chant that called the members   
of the opposite sex to take them out to the big ballroom in a complicated dance   
of seduction and conquest.  
  
That wasn't right.  
  
She was his. His companion, his mate, his bitch.  
  
Wolves mate for life.  
  
If someone wanted to take his chosen, the wolf would have to put him down first.  
  
And he intended to fight for what was his with teeth and claws.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
"What's up with 'im tonight?" Spike asked, while sending a curious look towards   
the werewolf in the cage. "He's lookin' at us... again."  
  
Turning her head around to look at her werewolf boyfriend, Willow shrugged   
softly. Crouched in the center of his cage, the mythic animal seemed to stab her   
with his magnetic golden eyes and she couldn't help but shiver, feeling the soft   
hairs at the back of he neck standing up.  
  
"I don't know," she whispered, turning back to the bleached-hair vampire at the   
other side of the table. "He looks a little upset, but I can't figure why."  
  
Spike frowned, and directed his patented leery smile at her. "Maybe he's in the   
middle of his coupling stage. Y'know, I could turn around for a while. Promise I   
won't look."  
  
The red-haired apprentice of Wicca looked at him murderously and, taking a new   
item from the interior of the box, practically threw it at her vampire friend.   
"Shut your big mouth, and identify this."  
  
Smiling, Spike sent a last appreciative look towards her, intense enough to make   
her avert her eyes and blush a little, before fixing his state on the object in   
his hands.  
  
"Puaggh," he growled with a grimace of disgust, making the glass flask turn   
around between his hands. "It's a, uh, it's some bloody kind of huge lizard   
conserved in some bloody kind of yellow liquid."  
  
"It's a triton," she corrected him while writing a new entry in Giles' notebook,   
"it's an amphibian, not a reptile, like a big salamander."  
  
"Whatever ya say, Red," he told her, still looking at the viscous animal   
floating inside the flask with disgusted fascination. "And what's this supposed   
to be used for?"  
  
Softly knocking with her pen on the surface of the notebook, Willow half-closed   
her eyes with a thoughtful expression, as if she was directly reciting from a   
textbook. "The different parts of the triton are used for casting different   
spells, and the liquid in which it's bathed has, uh, invigorating properties."  
  
"Invigoratin'?" he asked, with a frown of confusion.  
  
She nodded sheepishly. "Yeah, y'know, for the... the... you know."  
  
Spike blinked repeatedly, before looking back at the flask and then once again   
at Willow. "You mean, ya drink this and then you..." he whistled softly, and   
made an unmistakable and quite rude gesture with his fingers.  
  
"Yeah," she rolled her eyes, " that exactly."  
  
"Wow." He gave a last look to the floating reptile (or amphibian, or whatever)   
and left it aside with the rest of the already catalogued items, shaking his   
peroxide-blonde head in wonder. "Y'know? All these things make me think o' Dru,   
she'd 'ave loved all this stuff."  
  
Willow looked at him with surprise. It was the first time in the past few weeks   
that she'd heard him mention his lover's name. And it surprised her even more   
that, when he did it, there was no trace of resentment or pain in his voice.  
  
"You miss her?" she asked softly.  
  
Spike shrugged as he took a new item from the interior of the box, this time a   
little and very ornate silver box, and made it spin between his fingers, using   
it as an excuse not to look straight at the redhead.  
  
"Sometimes. Sometimes I think about 'er, about 'er laughter and the way she   
touched me and I 'ave this strange sensation 'ere," he said with a low and   
almost intimate tone, patting softly the beginning of his abdomen, "as if I 'ad   
somethin' warm inside. Other times, I remember some of the things we did   
together and I..." he shook his head, his lips tightly pressed together.  
  
"Sometimes, I 'ave nightmares," he finally confessed with a weak voice.  
  
Reaching out over the table almost with an unconscious gesture, Willow covered   
his cold hand with her own, squeezing it comfortingly. "Hey," she whispered to   
him, "it's in the past now, OK? You're a different man now."  
  
Spike looked at her through half-closed eyes, and with an uncertain expression.   
"Are ya sure?"  
  
Her smile was sincere and powerful enough to melt the vampire's frozen heart.   
"The Spike I know can't be the same one that did all the things I've read about.   
That Spike was a monster, and you're a man, William."  
  
"Don't call me that," he whispered, taking his hand away from hers. Getting up   
from his chair, he started to nervously pace. "You dunno what you're talkin'   
about, luv."  
  
"Then why don't you explain it to me, William?" she insisted, using his real   
name to get to him but not trying to get up from her chair, so he wouldn't felt   
harassed. Nevertheless, she decided to go to the heart of the matter. "Tell me   
why don't you want me to give you your soul back."  
  
"Don't go there," he warned her with a vicious hiss. Near them, the werewolf   
growled menacingly, baring his fangs.  
  
"Why not? What is it you fear so much?" she gently insisted.  
  
"I don't fear anything in this world," he remarked stubbornly, "you just don't   
understand. Ya can't, Willow, you're only human."  
  
With a grunt and putting on her Resolve Face, Willow jumped from the chair and   
made him stop his pacing by the radical method of stepping into his path and   
grabbing him by his elbows, so he had to look straight into her sea-green eyes.   
"Explain. It. To. Me. William."  
  
"I'm not William!!" he exploded almost with rage, extricating himself violently   
from her arms. "Why can't you get that through ya thick head? William Bledshoe   
is dead 'n buried!!"  
  
He paused a moment. "He was a weak kid, so scared of everything, of people, of   
life, of being alone... that he consented – no, he begged a demon to kill him.   
He committed suicide, Red. He was a coward, and I'm not him," he practically   
growled, leaning close to her as he let his human mask vanish and his game face   
appear.  
  
"This 'ere is who I am, and who I wanna be. I'm Spike, luv, and if you cast your   
little magic tricks and you make that loser's soul return... you'll be helpin'   
him, but you'll be killin' me."  
  
Willow shook her head in denial, not the least bit scared by his enraged and   
vamped-out face. "I refuse to believe that, and I think that deep down so you   
do. Things aren't as easy and simple as that, Spike. I don't know what happened   
that made you different, I don't know what the reasons are that make you so   
special, but you know that you're not a normal vampire."  
  
She shivered briefly. "I remember Angelus – he desired things, he wanted and he   
envied. He was your sire and he was obsessed, but he wasn't able to feel love.   
And you do, Spike. You love. Period."  
  
He shook his head, closing his golden eyes in stubborn denial, and Willow   
grabbed him by the lapels of his unbuttoned crimson shirt, making him look   
straight at her.  
  
"You can fool everybody else, Spike. You can even try and fool yourself, but not   
me. I know you."  
  
The intensity of Willow's gaze was so strong that Spike felt himself drowning in   
the twin pools of ocean water that were her eyes. There was a moment of silence   
between them, and he was certain that if he'd had a heart that was beating, it   
would've stopped dead at that very moment.  
  
They were closer than what he'd thought and he felt the wonderful warmth of her   
body next to his, like he had done that very morning. Her heart beating against   
her chest with fast, furious steps, and her ragged breath coming out in short   
whispers that caressed the cold skin of his neck.  
  
Not really knowing what he was doing, the bleached-hair vampire leaned even   
closer to her, his arms reaching out shyly to take her and his mouth descending   
on hers almost in slow motion.  
  
Willow's eyes opened wide with a sudden and unexpected mix of surprise, fear and   
even excitement. Her breath was cut short on her lips and her heart skipped a   
beat, as the realization of the fact that he was going to kiss her hit the   
redhead like a ton of bricks.  
  
Yet, she wasn't able to do anything to stop him. She couldn't even decide if she   
wanted to stop him or not.  
  
Closer and closer, their mouths came together as if by their own volition until   
there was nothing more than a mere inch of warm air between their lips.  
  
And just then, when they were about to make final contact, the roar of the   
beast, loud enough to make the walls tremble, shook them to their cores and made   
them jump apart as if they had been hit by an electric shock.  
  
They turned around as one, only to see the werewolf growling at them with wide   
open jaws that were spraying white foam and thick saliva everywhere around him,   
as he slammed full force against the wire-trimmed door of the cage. His golden   
eyes were exactly like twin blazing fires, nailed to them with enraged and   
furious expression.  
  
"Oz!!" Willow exclaimed, feeling her mouth going suddenly dry. "It's, uh, it's   
my..."  
  
"It's your boyfriend," Spike whispered, passing a hand over his face. Shaking   
his head as if he was coming out of a trance, he turned around and grabbed his   
discarded duster from the back of the chair. "I better go now."  
  
The werewolf seemed to calm down noticeably when he saw the bleached-hair   
vampire walking away from the young woman, and he remained quiet with his nose   
glued to the wire-trimmed fence, growling in a low and nerve-breaking tone.  
  
Feeling as if her mind was being rocked by a myriad of thoughts and emotions   
that she wasn't able to assimilate or even understand, Willow let herself fall   
onto the nearest chair. It was just too much in too little time.  
  
She had been about to kiss Spike, for God's sake.  
  
"Spike!" she called him when he was just about to abandon the room, making him   
stop dead in his tracks. "Don't go, please. We have to talk about this."  
  
The bleached-hair vampire sent a short and uncertain look towards her, over his   
shoulder. "I-I... I don't think this is the right time."  
  
"Spike..."  
  
"No," he shook his head and began to walk again to the door, "I just... later,   
OK? Just later."  
  
The redhead felt her shoulders slump down in defeat, and let out a long sigh as   
she watched the vampire's retreating back. As the bitter sting of tears came to   
her eyes, she hid her face between her slender hands as she chastised herself   
for her weakness and stupidity.  
  
=Stupid, stupid, stupid... what have I done?= she thought.  
  
Not very far away from her, Spike sent one last look at her. Feeling a thick   
knot forming in his throat, he walked away of the store as fast as his undead   
legs could carry him, biting his lower lip not to scream.  
  
All the way, as he crossed the front door, practically opening it with a furious   
push, and as he walked over the asphalt to his car, opened it and got into it,   
Spike kept his hands closed. Clenched with so much strength, that his nails dug   
into the tender flesh of his palms. Almost to the point of drawing blood.  
  
=Stupid, stupid, stupid... what 'ave I done?= he thought.  
  
Closing the door of the car with so much violence that the impact rocked the   
whole vehicle, the bleached-hair vampire hit the steering wheel with his closed   
fist once and then again, until it was about to break under his supernatural   
strength.  
  
=Stupid, stupid, stupid... =  
  
He leaned his forehead on the wheel, and let out a long sigh. Why things   
couldn't be a little easier?  
  
~~~~~~  
  
"Well, are you going to tell me or not?" Rachel asked him as they moved softly   
to the rhythm of a slow song. "Who called you and made Spike introduce his   
bleached head into my shower?"  
  
Letting the corner of his mouth rise in a crooked smile, Michael shook his head   
and he allowed his hand to travel sensuously over the brunette Immortal's waist.   
"You know, I should be angry at him, but I understand the guy. Who could resist   
this?"  
  
"You," she stated deadpan, "for almost seventy years. And don't try to change   
the subject."  
  
The French Immortal just offered her his patented roguish smile, and winked at   
her. "It was a woman, setting a date for lunch."  
  
She raised an eyebrow with incredulity. "Someone I know?"  
  
Michael's smile grew wider if possible. "Oui, blonde, brown eyes, mature but   
very well-developed..."  
  
Rachel's eyes held no amusement at all, and the French Immortal decided that the   
fun of making her squirm wasn't worth the pain of a more serious discussion. "It   
was Joyce."  
  
"Buffy's mom?" she asked with surprise, barely managing not to show her relief.   
Rachel would never admit it – but after witnessing years of Michael's flirtings   
with other women that weren't her and his endless list of female conquests,   
sometimes she felt a little unsure.  
  
She knew that he loved her, but she feared she wouldn't be able to keep him by   
her side. "And what did she want?"  
  
Michael shrugged. "Just to have an... exchange of impressions, I think she   
called it. She just wants to be informed about Buffy's training and evolution."  
  
Rachel shook her head in wonder, smiling softly. "Like an Immortal PTA reunion?"  
  
"Something like that. I must admit that it is, je ne sais, kinda..."  
  
"Weird?" She sighed and tilted her head to one side, considering it. "Well,   
she's her mother. It's normal for her to be worried about her daughter."  
  
"It's not that, it's the whole scenario," Michael said, with a grimace and   
slight shrug. "I mean, have you ever heard about an Immortal going back home at   
night and telling his maman how many heads he has chopped off during the day?"  
  
Rachel giggled softly, getting more comfortable in her lover's embrace. "We're   
just not made for a stable life," he finished up.  
  
The brunette looked at him with surprised eyes. "I can't believe my ears,   
Michael. That doesn't sound like you at all."  
  
He opened his mouth to answer to her but then, the reflection of a ray of light   
on some metallic edge hit him squarely in the eyes, making him blink repeatedly   
and shake his head in surprise as he turned his dark blue gaze to the source of   
the light.  
  
At first he saw everything unclear and confused, as he automatically raised a   
hand to protect his eyes. Time slowed its pace and the bodies moving around them   
in slow motion parted like the Red Sea for a brief moment, forming a tunnel   
between them and the edge of the dance floor.  
  
And then Michael saw him.  
  
He was standing at the very limits of the dance floor, looking at the dancing   
couple with his head slightly tilted to one side, his black eyes half-closed and   
the corner of his lips risen in a crooked smile.  
  
With the fingers of his left hand he was playing with a wooden Catholic rosary,   
slowly passing the dark polished beads one by one.  
  
As the breath was cut short on his lips and his heart skipped a beat, Michael's   
dark blue eyes were captured by the movement of the silver crucifix at the end   
of the rosary, slowly rocking from the young man's hand. It felt like being   
hypnotized.  
  
The blood froze in his veins, and the French Immortal's lips formed a name   
without actually pronouncing it.  
  
Then his vision was clouded as an unfocused dancing figure passed in front of   
his eyes. It lasted for only a second but, when the figure passed away, there   
was an empty spot where the sandy-haired young man had been a mere moment ago.   
It was as if he had never been there.  
  
"Michael?" Rachel's voice called his attention and he shook his head, trying to   
come out of his momentary trance. "What's going on?"  
  
"I just saw..." They had stopped dancing and Michael took a step back, passing a   
hand over his face as he grimaced as in pain.  
  
"I thought I was seeing Damon," he told her with a weak, almost guilty voice.  
  
"Oh, good Lord," she whispered. Immediately, Rachel enveloped him into a fierce   
embrace, letting his head rest in the crook of her neck as she rocked him   
softly. "It's OK, Michael. I understand, we were talking about stable lives and   
you remembered. It's OK."  
  
Softly whispering to him the soothing words, Rachel accompanied him back to   
their table, practically guiding him to his chair and sitting next to him. She   
never let his hands go, feeling them suddenly cold and trembling between her   
smaller ones.  
  
She remembered along with him and something uncomfortable and bitter was born in   
the deepest corner of her being, but the brunette Immortal did her best to   
ignore it. Putting the memories and her own feelings aside, she focused on just   
helping the man she loved more than her own life.  
  
"I miss him too," she told him, squeezing his hands with her right one as she   
cupped his chin with the left and gently made him raise his eyes to hers. "It's   
OK to remember him, Michael. And it's OK to cry if you want, I know you loved   
him."  
  
Michael shook his head painfully, taking the hand with what Rachel was cupping   
his cheek into his own and keeping its warm palm against his skin.  
  
"It's not fair," he whispered. "It was my fault, it should have been me."  
  
"Don't say that," she practically hissed with pain, squeezing his hand tightly   
as she leaned closer to him, tears coming to her own eyes. "Don't you ever say   
that."  
  
"Why not?" he asked her, with pained and heavy eyes. "He didn't deserve it. If   
he hadn't followed me into this... madness, he would be alive now to have that   
normal life we were talking about."  
  
Rachel shook her head and sighed almost in resignation, as she rolled her warm   
brown eyes. "What's with you men and guilt? I mean, you should talk to Angel and   
Xander and, between the three of you, you could start up a club or something."  
  
He looked at her in silence from under his brow, and finally managed a soft   
smile that she shared. When she spoke to him again, her tone was low, intimate   
and comforting. "He took his chances and made his own decisions, Michael. He was   
a grown up, a man who knew what he was doing; he decided to follow us of his own   
volition even when, more than once, you tried to talk him out of it."  
  
"I should have insisted more," he said stubbornly.  
  
The brunette Immortal practically groaned at hearing this. "Michael..."  
  
"Please, don't, ma chèrie," he cut her, softly kissing her knuckles and shaking   
his head. "We're not going to get anywhere this way, n'est-ce-pas? He was my   
chance at a normal life, I loved him and now he is dead. There's nothing I can   
do about it, no matter how much I would like it to be otherwise."  
  
Rachel nodded slowly and leaned closer to him, so she could place a soft kiss on   
his lips.  
  
"Sorry for ruining the mood," he excused himself with a half-smile.  
  
"Don't worry," she told him, getting up from the chair to sitting down on his   
lap, "I knew from the beginning that loving you was going to be a dirty job."  
  
"But somebody had to do it?" he asked with a risen eyebrow, his usual charming   
smile returning to his lips.  
  
"Better than that," she whispered, surrounding his shoulders with her arms and   
kissing him once more, this time longer and deeper. "Hey, I have an idea."  
  
"What?" he asked, feeling her arms abandoning his body as she got up from him.   
He moaned, offering her the lost puppy look. "Can't it wait till later? After   
some smoochies?"  
  
"Wait, this will be even better," she told him as she walked away.  
  
Michael growled, making a face. "Somehow, I doubt it."  
  
Not very far away from them, Xander and Cordelia observed the developments   
between their two Immortal friends as they kept on dancing at the slow pop music   
played by the Bronze's DJ.  
  
"Do you think they're alright?" Cordelia asked the young vampiric Immortal,   
watching how the brunette woman walked away from her lover.  
  
Xander shrugged softly, shaking his head. "I hope so. Anyway," he told her as he   
turned his head to look straight at his own lover, "they're old enough to know   
what they're doing."  
  
"And you?" Cordy asked him. "Do you know what you're doing?"  
  
Leaning his forehead against hers, the young vampire smiled widely. "I'm dancing   
with my baby," he whispered to her, "and I'm thinking of what I'm going to do to   
her afterwards. Although I'm not very sure I'm going to be able to contain   
myself."  
  
As he got even closer to her, Cordelia was able to notice what his intentions   
were when he let his hands travel from the curved small of her back. Until they   
were cupping her perfect buttocks through her short miniskirt, and she got an   
even clearer impression of what was on his mind through the rough fabric of his   
jeans.  
  
"You're a naughty vampire, Xander Harris," she told him with a wicked smile.   
"We're in a public place."  
  
Xander wiggled his eyebrows at her. "That's why they call it a public display of   
affection, Cordy. You know," he kept whispering, "I could use my hypnotic powers   
with all these people, they wouldn't even know we're here."  
  
She giggled, feeling a little self-conscious, but quickly lost all shame or even   
conscience of the people around them when he kissed her fully on the mouth,   
parting her moist lips with his and interlacing her tongue with her own in a   
deep and hot kiss.  
  
"Xander," she moaned in pleasure as he broke away from her to trace the line of   
her jaw and her throat with his warm mouth, "we're giving a – oh my God! – a   
show..."  
  
The young vampire's response was just a mere and deep animalistic growl that   
rocked her to the core, and made her whimper with a little aroused yelp. He sank   
his face into the crook of her neck, tenderly holding her head with one hand as   
he sucked and lapped at her pulse, giving her one hell of a hickey.  
  
"Xander," she moaned again as a flick of his tongue traced a particularly   
sensitive spot right under her earlobe. Then, he finally abandoned the warm   
crook of her neck, all the way placing soft kisses on every inch of her skin he   
was able to find, and kissed her again on the mouth.  
  
Cordelia let her hand wander over the smooth surface of the crimson velvet shirt   
covered his broad and hard back, tracing an idle pattern as they traveled south   
to the small of his back...   
  
...and touched a hard bulge that protruded under his untucked shirt.  
  
"What's this?" she asked with a grimace of surprise, breaking the kiss and   
looking at him as her hands investigated the strange bulge. "A gun?"  
  
Xander looked at her with wide eyes, and shushed her. "Sshh, do ya want   
everybody to hear you?"  
  
Cordelia just raised an annoyed eyebrow at him as her slender hand slipped under   
Xander's shirt, and touched the warm surface of the gun's butt with her   
fingertips.  
  
"You brought a pistol to a date?" she asked him with incredulity, but in a lower   
voice. "Where's your sense of romance gone to?"  
  
The young vampire just gave her a forced smile. "As long as Faith's around, I'm   
not going to take any chances," he told her, his face turning grim at the mere   
mention of his sire's name. "I'm sorry that doesn't fit with your idea of what a   
romantic guy has to be."  
  
The brunette just looked at him, with her mouth twisted into an annoyed   
expression before finally allowing it to show a smile. "It's OK, I don't mind.   
But what are you packing?" she asked, patting again the bulk and putting on a   
thoughtful expression. "Mmm, polymer frame and grip... high-capacity magazine...   
external hammer... the H&K USP again?"  
  
Xander nodded slowly, not knowing very well what to make of that. "Yeah..."  
  
Cordelia sighed and shook her head, puzzled. "How is it that you still carry   
that? The safety's crap and the nose tends to point down as you empty the   
magazine during a firefight. I think you should change over to a Glock or maybe   
a Beretta, if you prefer a more regular trigger. Hey, a stainless M92 would look   
good with the kind of clothes you use to wear!"  
  
Putting on his best 'are we on Candid Camera?' expression, Xander looked at his   
girlfriend, completely horrified. "What?" he squeaked.  
  
"Well, you know the dark colors and the-"  
  
"Cordy!" he exclaimed, amazed. "And you were calling me non-romantic? Baby,   
you're spending way too much time with Kyle!"  
  
The brunette just shrugged, giving him a sweet smile. "What? Can't a woman have   
a hobby?"  
  
Xander said nothing, he just smiled in amazement and shook his head as he rolled   
his eyes as if saying 'what am I going to do with you?'. "One of these days,   
you'll have to tell me about this new side of yours."  
  
Cordelia looked at him, with a little uncertainty reflected in her hazel eyes.   
"You don't like it?"  
  
"I'm still getting used to it," Xander told her with a reassuring smile. "I   
mean, it's still hard to separate this daring, brave and wonderful woman you've   
become from the spoiled, self-centered and also wonderful girl you were when I   
left. It's just very..."  
  
He shook his head as he searched for the correct word, "...new. But then fair's   
fair, and I've also changed a lot, so I guess that puts us at the same level.   
It's just that I would've liked to have been there to be with you through the   
change."  
  
The brunette got closer to him, molding the soft and warm curves of her body to   
his strong and hard planes and rested her head on his shoulder, breathing that   
head-lightening aroma that was so his and kissing him on the side of his neck.  
  
To say that this man was able to take her to the outer limits of ecstasy, was   
just a mere understatement.  
  
They had slowly and without noticing gone to the edge of the dance floor and   
Xander, wrapping one arm around her waist, gently guided her to their table,   
sitting down and gently placing her on his lap.  
  
"I love you," she whispered in his ear as she surrounded his shoulders with her   
arms, and leaned her head close enough to kiss him on the lips.  
  
After sending a brief look towards Michael who, seated on the other side of the   
table, was idly playing with the straw of his drink as he marked time until his   
girlfriend returned, Xander hugged her against his chest, and pressed a soft   
kiss against her temple. "And I love you back," he told her with an equally soft   
whisper.  
  
They looked at each other for a short moment of silence and then, at the same   
time, they closed their mouths together in a fierce and passionate kiss,   
forgetting the music and the people around them.   
  
Forgetting about anything that wasn't them and that moment of shared passion, as   
their tongues dueled in a wet and smooth battle in which quarter was neither   
asker for nor given.  
  
They were young. They were in love. They didn't needed anything else.  
  
On the other side of the small rounded table, Michael Deveraux stopped trying to   
hold the thin plastic straw in equilibrium over his upper lip. And, turning   
around and muttering something about hormonal teenagers, he tried to locate his   
own girlfriend and not to look so out of place amongst all these way-younger   
people.  
  
That was when the music stopped, and the lights went out.  
  
With a reaction that was born from centuries of experience, the French   
Immortal's hand immediately went to his neatly folded coat on the chair next to   
his, slipping under it and closing around the handle of his rapier.  
  
"What the hell?" he heard Xander's muffled voice behind him. "Michael?"  
  
All around the interior of the night club, the sudden darkness was filled with   
all the possible different versions of 'what's going on?' and 'turn on the   
lights!' as the teenaged crowd tried to figure, indeed, what was going on and   
why nobody turned on the lights.  
  
Somewhere a chair fell to the floor with a clattering sound, and a girl squeaked   
a little yelp that was a mix of fear and excitement.  
  
Barely five seconds before the lights had been switched off, a potent focus was   
lit, creating a perfectly circled column of bright light in the middle of the   
dance floor. And standing in the center of the spot of light Rachel Curran   
smiled at the trio, her hands leaned on her narrow waist and a deliciously   
wicked expression on her face.  
  
Somebody in the darkness outside her little spot of light let out a loud and   
appreciative whistle, but the brunette woman simply ignored him, her eyes only   
interested in the man with the dark blue eyes and charming crooked smile.  
  
Then, the music began to play, slow and haunting and the whole crowd around the   
dance floor remained silent and quiet.  
  
"Things haven't been the same  
Since you came into my life  
You found a way to touch my soul  
And I'm never, ever, ever gonna let it go"  
  
Very slowly, Rachel raised her right hand from her waist and pointed at Michael   
with a finger of perfect manicure. 'You.'  
  
Looking around himself with an expression of faked surprise, Michel tapped his   
own chest with his finger as if to say, 'Me?'  
  
Rachel nodded slowly, curving her finger and motioning at him to join her on the   
dance floor. 'Come with me.'  
  
"Happiness lies in your own hand  
It took me much too long to understand  
How it could be  
Until you shared your secret with me"  
  
As he sent a smile and wiggled his eyebrows at the younger couple, Michael stood   
up and walked slowly and suggestively towards his lover, wanting nothing more   
than slap his lips against hers and kiss her senseless till the end of time.  
  
Nevertheless, just when he was about to take her into his arms, the brunette   
stopped him by going further than an arm's length by laying a hand flat on his   
chest. Michael raised his brow in surprise, but Rachel just shook her head   
slowly and smiled at him with that wicked, almost perverse expression.  
  
'Not yet, baby.'  
  
Michael raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms over his chest. 'Then what?'  
  
"Something's comin' over, mmm mmm  
Something's comin' over, mmm mmm  
Something's comin' over me  
My baby's got a secret"  
  
He sighed and leaned his hands on his waist as she began to walk around him,   
tracing a slow circle around his figure. Her arms crossed on her chest and her   
head slightly tilted to one side, she was looking appreciatively at him.  
  
At his elegant swimmer's body encased in those dark blue jeans, and v-neck light   
blue sweater that looked so good on him.  
  
"Like what you see, ma chèrie?" he asked her over his shoulder, when she stopped   
at his back.  
  
Getting closer to him, she smiled and whispered in his ear, "Not bad... not bad   
at all."  
  
And then, she began to really move.  
  
"You gave me back the paradise  
That I thought I lost for good  
You helped me find the reasons why  
It took me by surprise that you understood"  
  
All the people in the Bronze, from the first waiter to the last customer,   
couldn't help but to stare in astonished amazement as the gorgeous woman moved   
smooth and seductively around her lover, dancing a sensual dance of seduction   
around him.  
  
Her hips were swaying at the rhythm of the music as her hands traced the   
contours of his body, her fingertips the only part of her that really touched   
him now and them.  
  
"Wow," Xander heard Cordelia whispering, sharing her own amazement but with a   
warm and knowing smile crossing his lips. "Now, that's what I call hot."  
  
The truth was, it was making her remember an incident from long ago, involving   
her own lover and certain blonde Slayer.  
  
Only that, where Buffy's action had been foolish and cold, Rachel's dance was   
pure fire; and it was managing to communicate all the passion she felt for that   
light-brown-haired and handsome man beside her, to the entire crowd of the   
nightclub.  
  
Seeing her dancing, it was impossible for anybody not to think that she loved   
and wanted that man to the point of madness.  
  
"Just wait a second," Xander whispered in Cordelia's ear. "The best part is yet   
to come."  
  
Feeling his warm hand taking hold of her waist when he placed it flat and   
possessively on her belly and stroked her sensuously, Cordelia stifled a moan of   
pleasure, biting her lip, her eyes fixed on the couple in the middle of the   
dance floor.  
  
She barely noticed the slow movement outside the circle of light enveloping   
them, as the people there also began to dance at the rhythm of the song, the   
dark and almost shapeless shadows of their waving bodies creating an almost   
dreamy background against the figures of Rachel and Michael.  
  
It was getting really hot inside the Bronze that night and, as she felt Xander's   
mouth beginning to run over her neck, lapping and sucking at her pulse, it   
became almost impossible for the brunette young woman to imagine how it could   
get better than this.  
  
And then, Michael began to move along with Rachel.  
  
"You knew all along  
What I never wanted to say  
Until I learned to love myself  
I was never ever lovin' anybody else"  
  
Sensual, slow, gentle, tender. Dark blue lost into chocolate-brown. Hands   
moving, tracing soft curves and hard edges without really touching. Just a   
whisper of air between them, a distance that was at the same time too close to   
comfort and like being a whole world apart.  
  
It was like having sex with your clothes on.  
  
"Happiness lies in your own hand  
It took me much too long to understand  
How it could be  
Until you shared your secret with me"  
  
With her back to his chest, one hand reaching over her shoulder to capture the   
back of her neck as her hips moved in a sensual round motion, she nuzzled him,   
teasing his most sensitive part with her perfect behind as his hands lay on her   
waist.  
  
His fingertips slipped under her white blouse and began to do wonderful things   
to the exposed warm flesh of her midriff, feeling her silky softness, caressing   
her in a way that only he was allowed to do.  
  
Her hand ascended from the back of his neck, to lose its fingers between the   
short strands of his hair.  
  
Tilting her head to one side, she offered the smooth and silky skin of her own   
neck to her lover. Drawing him closer to her until his mouth closed around her   
fast-pacing pulse, making her grunt and moan with a kind of pleasure that only   
he was able to give to her.  
  
"Something's comin' over, mmm mmm  
Something's comin' over, mmm mmm  
Something's comin' over me  
My baby's got a secret"  
  
Xander got up from his chair, practically throwing Cordelia out of his lap and   
the brunette young woman would have fallen to the floor if he hadn't taken her   
into his arms at the last possible moment.  
  
"What are you doing?" she squeaked in surprise, as he practically carried her in   
his arms to the dance floor.  
  
"I'm tired of looking," he growled at her wolfishly, "I want some action."  
  
The brunette raised an eyebrow with incredulity. "Xander, I've seen you dancing;   
if you begin doing your... movements, we're gonna look like idiots at their   
side."  
  
Xander just looked at her sideways, allowing a crooked and almost arrogant smile   
to come up to his lips. "Once again, sweetheart," he whispered huskily at her as   
he placed her feet on the dance floor, "you're thinking about the old Xander."  
  
"What do you-?"  
  
The words were cut short in Cordelia's mouth, when he possessively placed his   
hands on her sexy hips and began to move. Making her sway along with him in a   
way that, although not as overtly sexual as the one of their two friends, was as   
intimate and full of sensuality as it.  
  
Making an effort to close her mouth at Xander's sure and sensual movements,   
Cordelia leaned her arms over his shoulder and began to put her two cents into   
the dance, quickly getting into the rhythm that her lover was marking.  
  
Moving along with him, a soft smile curving the corner of her lips as her   
precious hazel eyes lost themselves in his usually enigmatic and intense brown   
ones.  
  
She saw passion there, and desire, and deep, almost overwhelming love.  
  
Sex with their clothes on? That wasn't enough to describe it.  
  
They were making love to each other. With their eyes, their hands, their hips...   
they were loving each other.  
  
Yep, she had been wrong. After all, things could get better.  
  
"Happiness lies in your own hand  
It took me much too long to understand  
How it could be  
Until you shared your secret with me"  
  
The people began to surround them and soon they were all dancing as the lights   
came up, and the whole dance floor was bathed in a glow that seemed to be born   
from the living pulse of the crowd that danced, jumped and laughed like a   
single, exotic entity.  
  
Damn, it felt good to be young and alive.  
  
Hugging his lover strongly to his chest, laughing and enjoying his time as he   
had rarely done before, Michael Deveraux made her spin around, the pearl-like   
sound of her own laughter echoing in his ears like the most beautiful music ever   
created by god or man.  
  
Both in his mind and the young vampire's one, the bad clouds were dissipated by   
the joy of loving those women brought to them and by the happiness that only   
their love and affection could make blossom in their hearts.  
  
Gone were the nightmares of young and deranged vampires, of blood-ties and   
hurtful pasts, of sandy-haired men dying in a explosion of fire and smoke, of   
cries in the darkness of the night and days full of nothing more than sorrow and   
pain.  
  
There were no space for those memories, only for the moment of shared   
friendship, for the joy of living and loving, for the laughter and the love. For   
them.  
  
They were young. They were alive. They were in love. And nothing really mattered   
beyond that.  
  
"Mmm mmm, my baby's got a secret  
Mmm mmm, my baby's got a secret  
Mmm mmm, my baby's got a secret for me  
Mmm mmm, mmm mmm, mmm mmm"  
  
But, as with everything in life, it had to come to an end, and for both couples   
it came when the music finally faded away and they stopped their dancing, each   
woman in the tender embrace of her male lover.  
  
Both lost in each other's embrace as if the crowd around them, who was madly   
clapping and cheering, celebrating a moment that would surely pass to the annals   
of the Bronze, didn't really exist.  
  
Xander brushed his lips against Cordelia's. Rachel brought her mouth against   
Michael's. The two couples, a perfect mix of light and darkness, kissed long and   
hard like only lovers do... with the heart.  
  
Yes, it felt good to be alive.  
  
And then something hit Xander on the shoulder, making him break his lip-lock   
with his loved one.  
  
"Hey!" he exclaimed with annoyance, as he turned around to face whoever had   
interrupted such a wonderful moment so rudely. "Watch it!"  
  
The man looked at him with hostility, a bulky biker-like guy with long hair and   
leather jacket. He was practically dragging away a petite and giggling blonde   
with his arm around her narrow shoulders and who looked to have taken   
one-too-many beers.  
  
"Watch yourself, asshole," he growled at Xander, practically spitting the words   
at him when he spoke.  
  
The young vampire looked at them through half-closed and inquiring eyes, tilting   
his head to one side. "I'm sorry," he told the biker softly, "I wasn't paying   
attention."  
  
"I can guess why," the biker said, throwing an almost obscene look towards   
Cordelia's body.  
  
Xander felt his girlfriend stilling in his arms and couldn't help but smile as,   
out of the corner of his eyes, he noticed her sullen expression of disgust at   
the man's visual groping of her figure.  
  
"Come on," the blonde girl told the biker, the words slurring out of her mouth   
with alcoholic difficulty. "Dis place is gettin' boring, take me fer a ride..."   
Yanking at his leather jacket, she tried to take him away from the still-hugging   
couple, giggling senseless and hiccuping now and then.  
  
"A ride, sure..." The man sent a last couple of looks towards Xander and   
Cordelia and, surrounding the blonde's shoulders again with his arm, began to   
walk away from them. "I'll give you the ride of your life, babe."  
  
"Is it what I think it is?" Cordelia asked softly at Xander's ear and he nodded   
slowly, his eyes glued to the biker's broad back as the unlikely pair walked out   
of the local establishment.  
  
The brunette sighed with resignation. "Is it going to ruin our night?"  
  
Before Xander could answer her, he noticed Michael and Rachel getting closer to   
them, still locked in a tight embrace but with both their faces covered by   
grimmer expressions.  
  
"Something wrong, mon frère?" the French Immortal asked.  
  
"Vampire," Xander said simply, pointing to the couple with a sharp nod of his   
head.  
  
Rachel sighed, leaning her head on Michael's shoulder. "Never a night without   
its share of fun," she growled. "Do we play rock, paper, scissors?"  
  
"Non," Michael grunted, reluctantly extricating himself from his lover's arms   
and giving her a light kiss on the cheek. "I'll take care of it."  
  
"You sure?" Xander asked him.  
  
The French Immortal shrugged half-heartedly. "Oui, this is your night after   
all," he told him with a wink as he began to follow the biker and his date. "And   
besides, after our little dance if I don't let off some steam I will end up   
embarrassing myself; and you know, I have a reputation to maintain."  
  
"And we don't want that," Rachel said with a wicked grin. "Remember that we have   
an... appointment later."  
  
Michael just winked an eye to her. "I do, mon amour."  
  
Finally turning around, Michael lost himself in the crowd, in time to see the   
biker guide the blonde girl out of the Bronze by one of the side exits. He   
hurried his pace, following their path.  
  
Near him, Chuck was attending a table, taking the young peoples' request on his   
notepad with a long number 2 yellow pencil. When he passed them by, Michael   
reached out with his hand and slipped the wooden pencil out of the waiter's hand   
with his nimble fingers.  
  
"Hey!" Chuck protested with a frown. "That's my pencil!"  
  
"Sorry, kiddo," Michael smiled at him, slipping the pencil behind his ear. "It's   
a homework-related emergency."  
  
Flashing a last maniacal smile to the young waiter, as he looked at him as if   
Michael was the craziest guy on the whole planet, the French Immortal walked out   
of the nightclub.  
  
Taking a look around, he wished he had the metabolic control of his vampire   
friend, so that the coldness of the December night wouldn't freeze him like it   
was doing right then.  
  
"Come on," he growled, hugging himself and clenching his teeth together not to   
shiver. "Why did I leave my coat inside?"  
  
Somewhere not far away in the darkness of the alley, a moan that was a mix of   
pain and pleasure resounded on the dirty walls. "Oh, because of that."  
  
Michael rolled his eyes and began to follow the sounds for some tens of meters,   
until he finally located its source behind the bulk of a rusty and awfully   
smelly dumpster. Two shadowy figures were struggling in the dim semidarkness of   
the alley, one much more larger than the other, a mix of growls and groans   
coming out of them.  
  
Sighing with resignation, the French Immortal shook his head and walked calmly   
to them. "What's up?" he asked aloud. "The message was not clear enough?"  
  
Before either of the other two could react, Michael spun around as he smoothly   
jumped in the air, connecting a perfect roundhouse flying kick with the face of   
the blonde girl and making her fly backwards and away into a large pile of   
sticky trash.  
  
The French Immortal landed smoothly on his feet and, sighing once more, looked   
at the fallen woman, shaking his finger at her in reprehension and annoyance.   
"We don't like your kind around here, ma chèrie!"  
  
As the girl growled like an animal, trying to regain her feet, Michael turned to   
the biker who, with large and horrified eyes, was looking at the whole scene and   
about to have a deep attack of panic as he held his neck with his hand. "What   
the-? That damn bitch... she bit me! She..."  
  
The woman finally got up and hissed at the two men with a vicious snarl, her   
face now turned into a twisted and edged parody of a human one. "Jesus Christ on   
a friggin' sidecar!! What happened to her face?!?" he exclaimed.  
  
"Well, somehow I don't think it's acne," Michael quipped with a risen eyebrow.   
"Can you walk?"  
  
The biker, pale as a ghost, looked at him in astonishment. "Yeah," he nodded.  
  
"Then run," the French Immortal told him succinctly as he covered him and faced   
the blonde vampiress with an evil grin, adopting a comfortable fighting posture   
with his body slightly turned to one side and his knees flexed.  
  
He heard the quick footsteps of the biker at his back, and didn't need to turn   
around to imagine the large man running as fast as his legs allowed him.  
  
"I like the innocent girl act," he told the vampiress, "do you use it a lot?"  
  
She flashed him a grin, full of pointed fangs. "Whatever works is fine with me."  
  
Michael just smiled. "Mmm, a practical girl, I like that too."  
  
Without any warning, the blonde female vampire jumped forward, tracing a   
roundhouse kick with her extended leg directed at Michael's knees. The French   
Immortal avoided the kick by jumping up and to the side and, leaning his right   
foot on the edge of dumpster, propped himself up on it.  
  
The French Immortal then spun around like a twister, violent kicking her in the   
face with so much strength that her head twisted to one side and a thick spurt   
of blood came of from her mouth, raining down on the sticky asphalt of the   
alley.  
  
"Bastard!" she growled at him, backpedaling in pain. She spat more blood and   
saliva, and tested one of her fangs with the point of her tongue, finding it   
loose and weak. "You're going to pay for that!"  
  
He smiled smugly, shaking his head in amusement. "I would love to see this   
happen."  
  
With a growl of rage, she slashed the air with her elongated claws, trying to   
get to his throat, but Michael just leaned backwards, letting her fingertips   
pass a couple of inches from his flesh with a sharp swoosh of ripped air.  
  
Losing her equilibrium because of the violence of her movement, the vampire   
collided painfully against the dumpster. Before she could regain her composure,   
Michael grabbed her by her loose blonde mane, yanking at her hair, bringing her   
head back and smashing her face against the metallic surface with all his   
strength.  
  
The blonde grunted in pain and, not being able to hide a grimace of repugnance,   
the French Immortal smashed her face again against the dumpster, folding the   
metal with the force of the impact.  
  
"You know?" he asked her, as he took a good hold of her head with his two hands.   
"I hate hurting a woman," he kneed her in the gut, a moan of pain escaping from   
her lips.  
  
"I think a guy has to be really sick to do such a thing," he hit her face with a   
backhand punch and threw her against the wall, taking the borrowed pencil from   
his ear and pointing at her with its sharpened point. "But in your case, I'm   
going to make an exception."  
  
The vampiress roared, and launched herself against him with her golden eyes   
blazing with rage and hate. Michael just stepped aside and, tracing a perfect   
arch with his arm, stabbed her in the heart with the pencil. She moaned in pain,   
her blood wetting his fingers as it flowed out from the wound on her chest.  
  
Michael closed his eyes and, clenching his teeth, tore the tiny piece of wood   
out of her. The pencil came out, followed by a thin spray of blood; she jerked   
as if she had been hit by a lightning bolt, letting out a sharp squeak of pain   
that was like the one of a tiny animal. Then, after a second of silence, she   
just exploded into ashes.  
  
The French Immortal opened his dark blue eyes, just in time to see the last   
vestiges slowly falling to the ground like flakes of dirty snow. Looking at his   
bloodied fingers and the equally sticky pencil, he let out a sigh that was   
almost of pain.  
  
He raised his eyes to the front of the alley, where the biker had run away, and   
then down to the pile of dust on the ground.  
  
"I'm sorry," he said painfully, "I wish I could have been there for you, too."  
  
Then, shaking his head, he threw the pencil into the dumpster and walked to the   
lateral exit of the Bronze, losing no time in getting into the warm refuge of   
the interior of the club as he wiped clean his fingers with the aid of a white   
linen handkerchief.  
  
"And my pencil?" Chuck asked the Immortal when he passed by him, while walking   
to his friends' table.  
  
With an expression of annoyance, Michael took out a five dollar bill from his   
wallet and stuffed it into the waiter's breast pocket. "Buy a new one."   
  
As Chuck took out the five bucks and checked its authenticity with a suspicious   
expression, Michael finally made his way to the table and sat down, allowing   
Rachel to immediately slip onto his lap and surround his neck with her arms as   
she pressed a soft kiss on his temple.  
  
"Everything alright?" Xander asked him with worry.  
  
Faking a smile, the French Immortal nodded at him and arched his brow. "You   
know, the pen actually was mightier than the sword."  
  
"Well," Cordelia sighed, sitting on her own lover's lap, "it wasn't being a bad   
night until now."  
  
"And who says it can't still be?" Rachel looked around until she spotted the   
waiter and called his attention. "Hey, Chuck! Be a good boy and bring us some   
beers, will you?"  
  
Knowing that they were the ones that usually gave the bigger tips, Chuck lost no   
time in serving them four bottles of classic, cold and golden American beer.  
  
Taking a hold of his cold one, Michael just made a grimace, sticking the rosy   
point of his tongue out of the corner of his mouth. "Budweiser? Have you ever   
heard about Heineken? San Miguel? Carlsberg?"  
  
"Hey," Xander warned him with a playful smile, "stop complaining, buddy. And   
welcome to the good old US of A."  
  
"Well," Cordelia said with a smile, raising her bottle, "what do we toast to? I   
say to the Scooby Gang and the Archangels."  
  
"To friends," Rachel offered, lifting her own.  
  
"To lovers," Michael suggested, doing the same.  
  
As all the stares centered on Xander's figure, the young vampire raised his   
bottle to the center of the small table and smiled warmly to the three of them.   
"To us."  
  
Smiling and shaking their heads, the four friends clinked softly the necks of   
their bottles together. "To us!" they cheered with joy, once again forgetting   
about anything that wasn't the moment and the shared feelings of love and   
friendship.  
  
After all, they were only human.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
The radio was blasting some kind of loud rock music, filling the interior of the   
car with the striking sound of clashing electric guitars and sharps screams that   
could be the voice of a singer... or not.  
  
But the truth was, Spike couldn't have cared less about it.  
  
He was too tired to even keep on thinking. And so, as he had been doing for the   
last few hours, the bleached-hair vampire just continued driving in auto-pilot   
mode without any real destination or purpose. All the while, a cigarette   
consumed itself in the corner of his mouth, a cloud of blue-gray smoke coming   
now and then from his nostrils.  
  
Just like his own life. Without destination or purpose, consuming itself more   
and more with each passing second and turning into a cloud of smoke that   
vanished into the air.  
  
=Why'd things 'ave to be so bloody difficult? Why couldn't they be like they   
were in the old days?=  
  
Everything had been so easy back then; get up really late, go out, kill   
somebody, drink some blood, have some mindless sex with Dru or whoever was   
available at the time... just acting like any normal Master vampire would have   
done.  
  
Why did he have to stumble upon Xander, on that cold and wet night in Seattle?   
Why did he have to see something inside the boy, that had begun a slow but   
unstoppable change inside him? And that change, was it for good or not? Good for   
him? Was he really doing the right thing?  
  
And Willow... what was happening to him with her? What was that strange   
sensation in his stomach, any time he was close to her? Was he really... falling   
for her, in a deeper way than what he'd thought possible for someone like   
himself?  
  
As the realization of what was happening to him hit Spike with the full force of   
a pile-driver, the bleached-hair vampire opened his eyes wide and slammed his   
foot on the brake.  
  
Making his blue and rusty Monte Carlo stop, with a screech of punished tires in   
the middle of the lonely street.  
  
He was brooding.  
  
"Oh, shit!" Spike exclaimed even when there was nobody around to hear him,   
leaning his forehead on the steering wheel.  
  
The irony of the situation was too strong to ignore, and the bleached-hair   
vampire found himself chuckling bitterly. "I'm turnin' into me bloody sire!"  
  
=What's gonna be next? Leather pants? Ridiculously large amounts of gel in me   
'air?=  
  
Spike leaned back in his seat. =The whole situation's plain stupid!= He sighed   
deeply (a thing he did really well for a guy that had no breath), passing a   
tired hand over his chiseled features.  
  
Yeah, he had been about to kiss her, but so what? It wasn't as if he had thrown   
her onto the table and ripped her clothes off, exposing her soft and milky white   
skin so he could run his lips over each inch of it and then...   
  
=OK, so maybe things are a little more serious, after all.=  
  
He couldn't get the image of her out of his mind, how her heart had beaten   
against his chest, how good it had felt having her warm and petite body in his   
arms, how her lips had looked so soft, so promising as his own mouth descended   
towards them...   
  
Yeah, he had a crush on her, but did that mean that he was in love with her? He   
wasn't sure about that.  
  
But what Spike did know was that in the last few weeks, as the young redhead   
managed to worm inside his being, inside his heart, she had accomplished what no   
one else had been able to do.  
  
She had begun to expel Drusilla's shadow out of his heart and mind.  
  
It had all begun in that dark and twisted underground tunnel as she had remained   
by his side, soothing and helping him while Henri Duprè's spell tried to corrupt   
and take control of him; she had been so... different, from everything he had   
known before...   
  
Drusilla would have laughed at the scene, at the weak vampire lying in the lap   
of the petite apprentice of witchcraft as she soothed and calmed him with her   
sweet voice. She would have called him pathetic, a worm, a thousand different   
names, each one more painful and full of hate and venom than the last.  
  
Exactly like she had done, before he'd staked her.  
  
Spike had dusted her two years ago, but it hadn't helped him to get free of her.   
Her spirit still plagued his dreams and his moments of loneliness, the memories   
of her were still like a dagger stabbing his heart.  
  
And, more than once, Spike had wondered if he would ever be able to get rid of   
the ghost of the vampiress he had loved more than life itself.  
  
And this was no figure of speech. Once, she had asked him to give his life for   
her and embrace death and darkness. And he had happily obliged.  
  
He had thought that it was love.  
  
Now, as he dared to explore his feelings towards certain petite redhead, he was   
beginning to question that belief.  
  
The honk of a car startled him, bringing him out of his thoughts and making him   
jump in his seat as he let out a very unfitting yelp of surprise. A boxy pick-up   
passed by his car with its driver leaned out the window, directing at him a   
hostile expression. "Move it, asshole!!"  
  
With a growl, Spike stuck his head out of his own window and showed him his   
extended middle finger. "Screw you, asshole!!" he told him off. "Bloody 'ell..."  
  
With a frown, the bleached-hair vampire threw the ember butt of his cigarette   
out of the window and took a hold of his keys, turning them violently around as   
he tried to start the car.  
  
The engine of the Chevy coughed uselessly like a sick animal, refusing to wake   
up. Spike growled and insisted with the key, as he slowly pumped on the gas   
pedal.  
  
"C'mon, don't do this to me..." The engine finally came to life and roared, as   
the bleached-hair vampire closed his fist and made an unmistakable gesture of   
victory. "Yeah!"  
  
Deciding to go to a bar he had found a couple of days before which suited his   
mood perfectly, Spike stepped down on the gas as he searched for a new cigarette   
in the pocket of his duster.  
  
He brought it to his lips, humming at the tone of the hard-rock song that the   
radio was playing. It was a night as good as any other to get drunk, maybe even   
better than most.  
  
The Chevy stopped dead with a sudden shake and Spike was propelled forward, his   
forehead colliding painfully with the steering-wheel and the still-unlit   
cigarette flying from his lips.  
  
As he let out a grunt of pain and caressed the small bump growing on his head,   
the car seemed to be victim of a sudden collapse, the engine going dead and   
silent as did the radio and all the lights.  
  
"What the f-?" he growled with confusion.  
  
And then, without any kind of warning, the suspension lost all its strength and   
the frame of the car suddenly fell to the ground.  
  
Leaving a bewildered vampire floating in the air for a short second, until the   
roof hit him on his pained head and ripped another grunt from his lips, pushing   
him down onto his seat.  
  
=What's goin' on 'ere?=  
  
As if the aged Chevrolet had been possessed by some kind of playful poltergeist,   
the frame began to bounce up and down wildly and without any kind of control as   
the lights switched on and off in a maddening pattern.  
  
The radio came back to life and searched for a new station as if by its own   
volition, not seeming to stop at any one of them.  
  
"Oh, Lucifer!" Spike exclaimed as he tried to take hold of something so he   
wouldn't hit his head on the roof with each wild bounce of the car. "I'm gonna   
be abducted?!"  
  
And then the radio began blasting out lyrics, as the interior of the car was   
filled by colored fluorescent lights whose source he wasn't able to find.  
  
"La cucaracha, la cucaracha  
Ya no puede caminar!  
Porque le falta, porque no encuentra  
Las dos patitas de atrás!"  
  
Spike looked at the radio in astonishment, as the loud mariachi music filled his   
head, threatening to make it explode.  
  
Then, the proverbial light-bulb lit up over his head. "Those sons of..."  
  
"La cucaracha, la cucaracha  
Ya no puede caminar!  
Porque le falta, porque no encuentra  
Marihuana que fumar!"  
  
With a final shake, the car seemed to take one last breath and then collapsed   
down with the force of a ton of bricks. All the windows exploded into tiny sharp   
pieces of glass, and the hood opened up like the mouth of a dying beast. The   
doors fell off their hinges to the ground.  
  
The whole structure trembled as if in an earthquake, the axles broke and the   
four tires rolled away from the car.  
  
And then, everything finally remained still and silent.  
  
Thrown about in the front seat like a discarded cigarette butt, with one leg on   
the dashboard, the other one over the back of the passenger's seat and his head   
somewhere under the steering wheel, Spike calmly patted the floor until he found   
his lost cigarette.   
  
He brought it back to his lips, slowly lighting it with his lighter and then   
taking a long and deep puff of smoke into his undead lungs. "Somebody is gonna   
die for this," he growled.  
  
Awkwardly managing to crawl out of the now-ruined car on his hands and knees,   
the bleached-hair vampire stood up and walked slowly and methodically around the   
Chevrolet, shaking his head at seeing the ruined wreckage it had turned out to   
be.  
  
"Somebody is so gonna die for this."  
  
With a growl of rage that grew to a roar that shook the entire night around him,   
Spike kicked the front bumper with all his strength once and again and yet   
again, making it fold under the impact of his supernatural vampire strength.  
  
=Great way to end a perfect day!= he thought with sarcasm as his right foot rose   
to kick it once more and a colorful insult escaped from his lips. =Well, at   
least it couldn't get any worse.=  
  
"I think the poor fella is already dead," a voice told him at his back, "stop   
torturing him, would you, Spike?"  
  
With his eyebrows arched in shock, the bleached-hair vampire turned around in a   
flash. =Surprise, surprise... it did get worse, after all.=  
  
"You," he growled at the female figure in the darkness of the walkway,   
immediately allowing his human mask to vanish and his real face come to show as   
his claws and fangs became long and sharp. "Faith."  
  
The former Slayer came out of the shadows that plagued the empty street and   
walked closer to the bleached-hair vampire with a feminine gait, her hands   
behind her back and a wicked smile on her lips. "I'm honored you recognize me,   
even when we've never met before."  
  
Spike managed a tight smile at her, and a growl of warning when he considered   
that she was getting too close to comfort. "I've 'eard a lot about ya, luv."  
  
"Nothing good, I hope," she smiled sweetly at him. At the bleached-hair   
vampire's lack of response, Faith sighed dramatically, showing her back to him   
and examining the ruined blue car. "I gather you've had a little... accident."  
  
"Nothing that can't be repaired with a little of superglue and some   
imagination," he quipped, examining her through half-closed eyes, wondering what   
she intended, wanted or pretended.  
  
"You know?" she said, leaning to look at the interior of the car and still   
without looking straight at him. "I've read a lot about you. Well," she   
shrugged, "not that reading is one of my favorite ways to spend time, but I like   
to learn from the best."  
  
She turned her head slightly, sending him an appreciative look and a soft smile.   
"I always thought you were one of them, but this doesn't seem to really fit in   
with what I know about you..."  
  
Choking down a growl, Spike crossed his arms over his chest and sent her an   
expression of annoyance. "Well, what can I say? I been 'aving a bad day."  
  
"And how is that?" she inquired, walking once again closer to him. "Did you get   
up on the wrong side of the coffin?"  
  
"Ha, ha," he said without humor, "very funny, Faith. Now tell me, do ya want   
somethin' in particular from me, or can we just skip to the part where I rip ya   
lungs out and make ya swallow 'em?"  
  
"Tsk, tsk," she shook her head, "don't be a naughty boy, Spike. You should be   
nice to me, because..." she smiled at him, getting so close to his body that he   
was able to smell the natural perfume of her skin, "...I want to be nice to   
you."  
  
The bleached-hair vampire raised an eyebrow with incredulity. "Really? Meself I   
think it'd be smarter to French-kiss a cobra."  
  
Faith sighed, rolling her brown eyes. "What's up with you, Spike? What's   
happened to the vampire whose name was feared all over Europe? What would   
Drusilla think of you if she saw you right now?"  
  
With a growl of rage, Spike jumped on her, grabbing the former Slayer by her   
neck with a steel-like grip and pushing her roughly against the ruined blue   
Chevy. "Don't you ever dare to..."  
  
He looked at her eyes and the voice died on his lips, as something seemed to hit   
him squarely in his gut. They were bright and almost feverish, and Spike wasn't   
able to find any trace of fear there.  
  
There was excitement, rage, and a good dose of madness – he was too familiar   
with it, to not recognize it at first sight. They were exactly like Drusilla's   
eyes.  
  
"To what?" she asked with a rough and forced voice through the bleached-hair   
vampire's grasp. "To pronounce her name? To tell you the truth?"  
  
Half-closing his golden eyes, Spike applied a little more pressure on her   
throat; maybe he wouldn't be able to suffocate her, but the strength of his hand   
was almost enough to turn her vertebrae into thin bone-dust. "Don't speak about   
stuff you dunno anythin' about."  
  
"Oh, don't I?" she managed a sarcastic chuckle. "It's so damned... well, I don't   
know if it's ironic or just plain pathetic. All your life as a vampire trying to   
come out of Angelus' shadow, trying to demonstrate to everybody that you were   
better than him. More ruthless, stronger, eviler, crueler... better. And now   
look at you..."  
  
She shook her head, as if in pity. "You've ended up being exactly like him: one   
of the Slayer's lapdogs. And you don't even have the soul excuse."  
  
Spike growled in rage, her words touching a deep part of him in a way he hadn't   
believed she could. He let her neck go, slapping her with the back of his hand   
so hard that her head was violently twisted to one side, and the former Slayer   
fell to the ground.  
  
"Ooh, look at this," she said from the cold and wet asphalt, looking up at him   
from behind the silky veil of her tousled brown mane. There was a thin stream of   
blood running down the corner of her lips, and Faith stuck out the point of her   
tongue to lick it with a twisted smile.  
  
She raised her torso, leaning on her elbows and playfully crossing her long and   
bare legs. "Am I wrong, Spike? Is there anything more to you than what meets the   
eye?"  
  
"You can be sure o' that, luv," he growled, towering over her with rage-blazing   
eyes.  
  
Raising an eyebrow, the former Slayer got up from the ground, propping herself   
up with her shoulder-blades and smoothly landing on her high-heeled shoes. "You   
should begin rechecking your priorities, handsome. It's a shame to waste all   
this... talent you have."  
  
"Are you askin' me to betray my friends?" he asked with incredulity.  
  
"Friends?" she laughed out loud with sincere amusement. "Those people are not   
your friends, Spikey-Boy. They can't be."  
  
"You don't know 'em."  
  
"But I know you," she stated, almost with rage. "Stop lying to yourself, Spike.   
You're not like them. You can't be like them. They're nothing more than humans   
or human-wannabes, and you're a god of the blood. A vampire. A killer. You're   
like me."  
  
Spike clenched his teeth together and, closing his hands into tight fists, the   
bleached-hair vampire leaned dangerously close to her. "I ain't like you, ya   
psycho bitch!"  
  
Faith smiled smugly and then, before he knew what was happening, grabbed him by   
the back of his neck and slammed her mouth against his almost violently, parting   
his lips with hers and slipping her cold tongue inside the equally cold cavity   
of his mouth.  
  
She kissed him long and deep, and all that Spike was able to think was that she   
tasted like Drusilla. Dark, cold, immensely erotic...   
  
She slid her tongue over the point of one of his fangs, and the taste of her   
blood filled his mouth like some kind of maddening ambrosia.  
  
"Stop fooling yourself," Faith growled, breaking away from him. "We're not pets   
with fangs, baby; we can't be domesticated."  
  
Then, she placed her hands flat on his chest and pushed him with all her   
strength, sending him flying backwards onto the slightly opened hood of the car.   
  
  
Spike landed on the metallic surface with a grunt of pain and, before he could   
even think of getting up, the former Slayer began to walk away from him, sending   
him one last wicked look over her bare shoulder.  
  
"Think about what I've told you, Spikey-Boy," she said with that perverse grin   
that was so hers. "Oh, and don't worry about my neck," Faith caressed the   
slightly crimson marks that his fingers had caused on the smooth pale skin of   
her throat, "I like it rough. See ya around there, handsome. Take care!"  
  
Spike stood quiet and motionless on the hood of his ruined car, his golden eyes   
wide open and bewildered; the flavor of her blood was still flesh on his lips,   
as he watched helplessly how the former Slayer disappeared into the darkness of   
the night.  
  
"Boy," he groaned, leaning his head on the edge of the roof and raising his eyes   
to the full moon above, "me life is sure gettin' complicated!!"  
  
~~~~~~  
  
Barely containing her laughter, Faith jogged with a relaxed pace along the dark   
street until she reached a dark alley and walked into it, shaking her head with   
amusement.  
  
The headlamps of the shiny silver Aston Martin switched on, bathing her in a   
bright aura of gold. The former Slayer raised her hand to protect her brown   
eyes, as the roar of the British sport car's engine reverberated through the   
walls. Smiling, Faith walked to the passenger side and, opening the door,   
slipped into warm interior of the car.  
  
"Was that what you had in mind?" she asked Damon, as she made herself   
comfortable in her seat.  
  
The young hit man smiled at her, and raised a sandy-haired eyebrow. "I couldn't   
have done it better myself, baby. Especially the part with the kiss."  
  
The former Slayer smiled back at him broadly. "Well, it was certainly my   
pleasure to help, toyboy."  
  
Stepping down on the gas and taking the car out of the alley, Damon shook his   
head. "I'm sure it was."  
  
~~~~~~  
  
To be continued... 


	7. Part 7 of 8

DR2 - The Cross of Changes by Nick Midian, Book II, part 7 of 8   
  
Written by Nick Midian   
  
Content beta-reading and storyline suggestions by Duncan  
English grammar, spelling, slang, Highlander continuity and general corrections   
by Theo  
French slang, content beta-reading and storyline suggestions by Mash  
French slang by Alan  
  
  
EMAIL: jcaballero@euskalnet.net  
  
WEBSITE: http://www.angelfire.com/tv2/thedarkages  
  
SPOILERS: For Buffy the Vampire Slayer: 3rd season, BUT no Xander/Willow kissing   
and no Lover's Walk (welcome to the wonderful State of Denial, Land of   
'Shippiness). Hmmm, I've messed with the third season's timeline to accommodate   
it to my necessities. Let's just say that 'Band Candy' happened a lot later than   
it did, around the first days of February, OK?  
For Highlander: None really, the characters of the TV series and films are only   
tangentially mentioned. You just need to know the basics of Highlander-style   
immortality, BUT I've always thought that whole 'Immortals have no parents and   
are found in a little basket' is a... um, the Spanish word for it is 'chorrada',   
so let's just ignore it, OK?  
KEYWORDS: Romance, Angst, Action-adventure, Violence, Alternate Universe,   
Crossover.  
RATING: PG-13 with some mild R parts for violence and sexual innuendo.  
DISCLAIMER: This story has been written with no intention of profit, merely for   
the pleasure of writing and sharing it.  
The concept and characters of BTVS (Buffy, Angel, Cordelia, Xander, Willow, Oz,   
Giles, Joyce, Spike, Drusilla, Snyder, Faith, Harmony, Lyle Gorch, Quentin   
Travers and the rest) are intellectual and legal property of Joss Whedon, Warner   
Brothers, Mutant Enemy, etc. Also, the concept of Highlander and the characters   
mentioned here (Duncan MacLeod, Amanda Darieux, Richie Ryan, Joe Dawson and the   
Society of Watchers) are the property of Panzer-Davis and Rysher Entertainment.  
Michael Deveraux, Rachel Curran, Crystal Parker, Kyle White Owl, Robert   
Coltrane, Elvis the Dog, Broderick Egoyan, Damon Frost, Mr. Smith, the World   
Committee for Civil Defense and the rest are my own creation.  
All the songs and lyrics here are used without permission, they are copyright of   
their respective rights owners.  
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Please, understand that English is not my native language, so   
any grammatical or spelling errors are my fault, not of any one of my wonderful   
beta-readers. If you're thinking of sending any flames, please be kind with me.   
I'm a grown man, but I still can cry like a child, believe me.  
Additional Author's Note: The songs performed by Oz's band are 'Loli Jackson'   
and 'Serenade' by Dover. It appears courtesy of Subterfuge records. All rights   
reserved, yadda, yadda, yadda...   
SUMMARY: After the events in 'Dark Reflection' a new threat menaces both the   
Slayerettes and the Archangels as new and old enemies come to Sunnydale, merging   
past and present. This time, it's something personal - ta-da-da-dam!!! (sorry,   
but I just had to say that)  
  
And now, on with the show. Fasten your seat belts ladies and gentlemen, because   
it's going to be a long, hard and jumpy ride...   
  
~~~~~~  
  
The cast for Book II  
  
  
Nicholas Brendon as Xander Harris  
Charisma Carpenter as Cordelia Chase  
  
Sarah Michelle Gellar as Buffy Summers  
David Boreanaz as Angel  
Alyson Hannigan as Willow Rosenberg  
Seth Green as Daniel 'Oz' Osborne  
Anthony Stewart Head as Rupert Giles  
Kristine Sutherland as Joyce Summers  
  
Matthew Perry as Michael Deveraux  
Paula Trickey as Rachel Curran  
James Marsters as Spike  
Nikki Cox as Crystal Parker  
David James Elliott as Kyle White Owl  
Elvis the Dog as Himself  
  
Eliza Dushku as Faith Adams  
Donald Sutherland as The Old Chess Player, Broderick Egoyan  
Sebastian Spence as Damon Frost  
Avery Brooks as Mr. Smith  
  
Mercedes MacNab as Harmony Kendall  
Armin Shimerman as Principal Snyder  
Amy Chance as Aphrodesia  
Persia White as Aura  
  
Alan Rickman as Conrad Swann  
Wesley Snipes as Talon Pantera  
Dennis Rodman as Rush Pantera  
Tom Berenger as Colonel Cabbot Ashe  
Michael Ironside as the Sergeant  
Trevor Goddard as Backlash  
Shaquille O'Neal as Beast  
Jet Li as Bushido  
  
with  
  
Kevin Spacey as Robert Coltrane  
Nicholas Lea as Jonah Whalls  
and  
Catherine Zeta-Jones as the Lady in Red  
  
~~~~~~  
  
CHAPTER SEVEN: Opening gambits (shots to the heart)  
Sunnydale, California. December 4, 2002. 7:00 a.m.  
  
Brother, brother  
Sister, sister  
It's the loneliness  
That's the killer  
  
So you want  
To be free  
To live your life  
The way you want to be  
Will you give  
If we cry?  
Will we live  
Or will we die?  
  
Jaded hearts  
Heal with time  
Shoot that love  
So we can  
Stop the bleeding  
  
Solitary brother  
Is there still a part of you that wants to live?  
Solitary sister  
Is there still a part of you that wants to give?  
  
"Killer", Seal  
  
  
Rituals. Life is full of them.  
  
A man wakes up every morning, grabs a shower and breakfast, kisses his wife and   
kids goodbye and goes to work.  
  
A woman arrives home late from work, sits alone in front of the TV, not really   
looking at it as the microwave gets her pre-cooked dinner ready.  
  
A child is tucked in by his mother and prays in the dim semi-darkness of his   
bedroom to the God of his parents, asking him to wake up alive the next morning.  
  
Rituals. They define us – our little manias, our fears, our hopes, the things we   
love or hate... they tell things that sometimes we're not even conscious of,   
things we hide even from ourselves. They tell the truth about us.  
  
Damon Frost had only one ritual.  
  
Each morning, as the sun climbed up the sky, as the night vanished, he stood by   
the nearest window. Looking at the horizon with blind eyes and an empty   
expression, as his fingertips traced the healed flesh of the burn scar on his   
neck and shoulder. And, remembering the past, he wondered...   
  
What would his life be like now, if he'd made other decisions? If he had chosen   
other paths than the one he had decided to follow? Would he be here in the same   
place he was right now? Was it all his fault?  
  
He didn't want to believe that. He couldn't believe that. In his mind's eye, it   
was not a cowardly lie to hide his own mistakes, but the truth upon which he had   
founded his life for the last few years. It was what made him what he was.  
  
They had betrayed him. His friends, his family. Michael Deveraux had sold him   
out.  
  
The man he had loved and admired, more than anyone else in his life.  
  
As he closed his black eyes so tightly that the skin of his face filled with   
deep wrinkles around them, Damon dug his fingertips into the flesh of his scar   
until the sensation became painful enough to be unbearable.  
  
His nails broke the tender skin there, making his red and warm blood begin to   
flow out of the thin cut in scarlet tears that slowly rolled down his fair skin.   
  
  
Pain was good. Pain was all that he had. And hate, that feeling inside his belly   
so strong, so bitter that it consumed his whole being, setting him on fire,   
burning his soul, fueling him.  
  
He hated.  
  
And as the memories of other times – of lying asleep, feeling safe in Michael   
Deveraux's arms, of a life that now seemed to belong to a completely different   
person – came to his mind with the same strength, he wished he was able to   
change everything back. To forget, to make things as they had been not so long   
ago.  
  
But he couldn't move back in time; that road had vanished behind him,   
disappearing into the void with every step he took forward. He was only able to   
keep on walking the path he had chosen, and the only thing he could do was go to   
the end of it.  
  
That was one of the things that Michael had taught him.  
  
The light of the rising sun bathed his almost-naked body in a warm golden glow   
that was almost unreal, endowing sparkles from his blood as it flowed freely   
down his shoulder and into the crisp sandy hair of his chest.  
  
He closed his black eyes, taking a long and deep breath, feeling his lungs fill   
with the fresh and salty air of the morning.  
  
The moment was so close, that he could almost taste it. When all the questions   
would be answered, when all the cards would finally be laid on the table, when   
his hunger and anger would be finally satiated.  
  
When he would finally make him understand that Michael had chosen the wrong one.   
He would make all of them understand that.  
  
Looking outside, at the bald and barren esplanade in front of the mansion, Damon   
finally came out of his reverie and watched with half-closed and curious eyes   
what was developing there.  
  
Four black Humvees, filled to the brim with what to his trained eyes was hi-tech   
military equipment, were parked in the center of the esplanade. In front of   
them, a dozen men dressed in black paramilitary uniforms armed to the teeth were   
standing at attention, as two other men dressed in the same fashion walked in   
front of the group, addressing them.  
  
Not far away from them, there was a black and unmarked UH-1D helicopter,   
stationed like a big coleopteran, letting the first rays of the day bathe its   
wide body.  
  
From his position, Damon was able to see the pods mounted on both sides of the   
helicopter, empty at that very moment but ready to hold what he knew was a wide   
and diverse combination of weapons, from heavy machine-guns to rockets and even   
light missiles.  
  
=It's got some pretty heavy stuff,= he thought.  
  
Recognizing Cabbot Ashe (Colonel Ashe, his mind corrected him) as one of the two   
men addressing the group of soldiers, Damon threw a thin T-shirt over his bare   
chest and opened his window, sitting on its shelf so he could listen to them   
more comfortably.  
  
This could be fun, after all.  
  
"...is no game!" the mercenary colonel's voice came to him, full of authority.   
"Gentlemen, if you thought this operation is going to be a walk in the park, you   
are very wrong!! I know you've read the mission profiles, and that some of you   
think we're just going to face a bunch of helpless kids. Well, if that's true   
then let me tell you this: there's no easy mission, there's no easy target and   
there's no easy enemy!!"  
  
Arching his brow with amusement, Damon couldn't help but smile. It was like   
being back at Fort Bragg.  
  
"I won't tolerate any mistakes, and if any one of you let your guard down and   
put this operation's objectives in danger, that man will have to answer to me   
personally – am I understood?!"  
  
"Sir!! Yes, sir!!" the twelve men roared as one.  
  
Damon couldn't hold it anymore and burst out in laughter, so strongly that he   
had to hold his gut with his hands not to fall out the window, and so loud that   
the whole group of men looked at him in anger.  
  
"Do you find something funny, Mr. Frost?" Colonel Ashe asked with a patent lack   
of amusement in his voice, carefully adjusting his black beret on his head as he   
looked at him with cold and hard eyes.  
  
Barely controlling his laughter and shaking his head, he took a more comfortable   
position on the window-shelf, with his legs hanging out and rocking like the   
ones of a child.  
  
"Yeah, well, now that you mention it..." he did a soft wave to the   
straight-as-broomsticks men, "...are they real, or did you find them in a   
collection of action figures? Do they make weird noises if you push the hidden   
buttons? 'Up and at 'em!'" he exclaimed with a fake gruff tone. "'To the end and   
beyond!'"  
  
As Ashe and his subordinate walked slowly to him, Damon noticed the patches and   
insignia on the uniforms. Although he doubted they were real, they were inspired   
by the classic American military ones – they marked Ashe as a colonel and his   
companion, a shorter and balder man that had a thin scar from his left temple to   
the corner of his eye, as a sergeant.  
  
Both men carried pistols, spare magazines and knives in their utility belts; and   
their black berets showed a golden symbol, that resembled slightly the one of   
the French Foreign Legion, a hand holding a dagger.  
  
Damon hoped that they were more skillful on the battleground than they were on   
the parade ground.  
  
"My men come from some of the best special operations groups in the world, Mr.   
Frost. Navy SeALs, Green Berets, British SAS and Royal Marines, German GSG-9...   
they are the best of the best, so do you think it's wise to make fun out of   
them?"  
  
Letting a wide, almost arrogant smile cross his lips, Damon jumped smoothly from   
the window, letting himself fall in front of the mercenary colonel. It was a   
cold morning and he, wearing only a pair of dark blue jeans, T-shirt and   
barefoot, felt the goosebumps rising all over the skin of his arms.  
  
He guessed he must look curious, barely dressed in front of the two uniformed   
men – but frankly, he couldn't care less about it.   
  
"What's the point of meeting new friends, if you can't make fun out of them?   
Come on," he said, giving the colonel a friendly pat on the shoulder, "don't be   
so serious."  
  
With his hands crossed behind him, Colonel Ashe took a short look at his   
shoulder, where Damon had patted him, and then back at the young hit man. It was   
clear to Damon that, although not a muscle of his body moved to show it, the   
older man would love to rip his head off and take a leak in his bleeding throat.  
  
Which was great, 'cause he just loved to piss off guys like him.  
  
"Watch those hands, you little shithead," the colonel's companion grunted at   
him, leaning his hand on the butt of his gun.  
  
Before he could make any movement, the colonel silenced him with a soft movement   
of his hand. Immediately, the sergeant became silent and quiet but still kept on   
eyeing Damon with hostility.  
  
"Have you ever been in the army, son?" Ashe asked him.  
  
Damon's black eyes lost all their humor, turning suddenly cold and hard. "Don't   
call me that - ever," he practically spat at the older man's face. "And yes, I   
was once; and it's not one of my most pleasant memories, actually."  
  
"I wonder why," the Sergeant mumbled.  
  
"I guessed that you didn't get that bronze ring out of a box of cereal," the   
colonel said, ignoring his subordinate's comment and signaling at Damon's hand   
with a soft nod of his head.  
  
Absent-mindedly making the ring turn around his finger so the seal would be   
hidden inside his hand, the younger man nodded in silence. Ashe moved slightly   
to one side and, giving a wave towards his men, smiled coldly at Damon. "Why   
don't you show us how you got it?"  
  
Smiling back, Damon made a playful and elegant bow in front of him. "My   
pleasure," he said, before beginning to walk to the still firm men.  
  
"Teach him a lesson," Ashe whispered to the sergeant, when the younger man was   
out of their hearing range.  
  
"Beast!" the sergeant shouted, after a quick nod towards his superior. "Get your   
ass out of the line!!"  
  
"Sir! Yes, sir!" one of the men exclaimed, saluting and walking out of the line.   
He was black, tall and huge like a brick out-house. When he smiled predatorily   
at Damon, the young man thought that his teeth were exactly like the ones of a   
shark.  
  
"I'm going to love this," Beast whispered to him, zipping open his black jacket   
and taking it off.  
  
Under it, the man called Beast was only wearing a tight black T-shirt and the   
muscles of his arms seemed to Damon big and powerful enough to crush the whole   
defensive line of the San Francisco '49ers.  
  
Out of the corner of his eyes, Damon noticed the rest of the men break the line   
to form an irregular semi-circle at their left. They seemed very sure and   
self-confident of their own skills.  
  
Damon just smiled to huge black man. "You know what they say, the bigger they   
are..."  
  
Beast launched himself forward, his big right fist going in search of the young   
man's head like a guided missile, as he lifted his left one to protect his upper   
torso and face.  
  
Damon simply flexed his knees, letting the propelled fist pass over his head,   
and, with a movement so fluid that it seemed made of water, spun around his left   
feet as he extended his right one in a perfect round arch that hit Beast on the   
back of his knees, sweeping his legs off of the ground and making him grunt in   
sudden and unexpected pain.   
  
"...the stronger they bleed," Damon completed his sentence as he grabbed the   
man's still-extended right arm. Twisting it violently under Beast's back, he   
yanked at the man's belt to throw him face-first to the ground, and then pin him   
down with his bent knee on the small of his back.  
  
With a roar of rage, the black man used his obviously superior strength to flip   
him off of his back and rolled over the ground, quickly regaining his vertical   
position as he unsheathed a short dagger from his boot.  
  
"Come on," he waved at Damon with the shiny and obviously sharp short blade,   
smiling twisty. "Try to repeat that, asshole."  
  
The men cheered and roared their approval, chanting their partner's name.   
"Beast! Beast! Beast!"  
  
"Cut him in little pieces, Beasty Boy!" a man with a thick moustache and goatee,   
and who carried a leather whip attached to his utility belt, shouted with a   
thick Australian accent.  
  
Ignoring them as he half-closed his eyes and centered them on his opponent's   
ones, Damon adopted a relaxed fighting stance with his knees bent, his feet   
separated and firmly anchored to the ground and his body slightly turned to one   
side, offering a low profile to the man's next attack.  
  
The eyes. That was another thing he had learnt from Michael. Everything was in   
the eyes, the moment of the victory, the moment of the loss and the moment of   
the attack.  
  
He saw it, the hesitation, a slight movement of the man's pupils; and, when he   
attacked, Damon was already finishing his own counter-attack.  
  
The blade emerged forward and straight like an arrow, searching for the soft   
flesh of his throat, and the young hit man just leaned to one side, letting it   
pass without any harm and retreating back with the same speed as he took a short   
step backwards.  
  
When Beast tried to stab him again, Damon was slightly farther away from him,   
not enough to make him take a step but enough to make him lean forward more in   
order to reach out to him.  
  
Just a little bit.  
  
Damon leaned to the other side, eluding the blade for the second time, took a   
new short step and Beast, like an obedient puppy, followed him.  
  
In less than a second, the trap had been set.  
  
The third time, the distance between them had grown so large that the huge man   
had to bring his supporting foot slightly to the front to maintain his   
equilibrium and his arm, completely extended in the stabbing movement, waited   
just a fraction of second before retreating back.  
  
It passed unnoticed for everybody else, but for Damon Frost it meant the end of   
the fight. One of his hands descended like a lightning bolt onto the extended   
wrist, capturing it, and the other took a good hold onto the elbow.  
  
The young hit man twisted the man's arm as he spun around, stepping onto the   
back of the knee of the man's supporting leg and making him fall onto it.  
  
Groaning in pain and shouting a colorful insult, Beast's grasp on the knife   
weakened enough for Damon to rip it from his hand and, with a fluid movement,   
raise it ready to plunge it down into his throat.  
  
Near them, the sergeant made a sharp gesture towards the man with the thick   
Australian accent and this one lost no time in taking his whip off of his belt   
and crack it. The point of the long leather whip rolled around Damon's wrist,   
capturing it and stopping the young hit man from slicing Beast's neck open.  
  
"Whatcha gonna do now that Backlash has you, buddy?" the man asked him with a   
smug grin as he yanked at his whip, tensing it and making Damon lose his grip on   
his fallen opponent.  
  
Damon had to take a step away from him, not to fall to the ground himself. "Two   
can play this game," Damon grunted, grabbing the whip and yanking back at it   
with all his strength.  
  
When he didn't let the whip go, the man that had called himself Backlash was   
destabilized by the young hit man's sudden action and practically flew to him,   
only to find his throat colliding with Damon's extended arm. He then fell to the   
ground, in a shapeless pile of limbs.  
  
"It this all that your men can do?" Damon asked Ashe with a half-smile,   
carefully rolling up the whip around his forearm.  
  
The Colonel shook his head slowly and made a soft gesture to the fallen men,   
snapping his fingers. The two men stood up, grunting and holding their   
respective pained areas, and looked at Damon with hatred and hostility.   
"Sergeant."  
  
The man with the scar on his face took a step towards them, his face turned into   
a twisted mask of anger. "You two, get your queer butts out of here and begin   
doing weapons and vehicle service!! I don't want to see your ugly faces for the   
next five hours, you useless pieces of shit!!"  
  
"God, sergeant," Backlash protested with a rough voice after sending a last   
hateful look towards Damon. "We were just warming up."  
  
"Warming up, my ass!! Bushido!! Get out here!!"  
  
Another soldier, one with thin and elegant Asian features, walked to them, his   
face devoid of any expression that wasn't strong resolve and self-confidence.  
  
Just seeing the way he moved and walked, with sure and controlled movements made   
to economize energy and effort, Damon knew he was going to face a really   
dangerous fighter. A professional one.  
  
Good, he liked to face his own kind.  
  
Smiling, Damon took a small bow in front of him like protocol demanded but, when   
Bushido was about to return it, the young hit man made his move, taking him by   
surprise with a crescent kick that seemed fast enough to break the sound   
barrier. After all, the one who strikes first, strikes twice.  
  
Or, at least, that was what the saying used to be. In reality, Bushido reacted   
at the sudden attack with the speed of a cobra, eluding Damon's rising foot and   
spinning around in a low sweep that made the young hit man transform his kick   
into a backflip, not to fall to the ground.  
  
He had barely recovered from it when the Oriental man was already above him with   
a high kick directed to his head, that he blocked with his risen forearm,   
backpedaling to gain some breathing space.  
  
Bushido began a fast series of kicks and punches that Damon was barely able to   
block or elude. Finally, the mercenary's fist made contact with the young hit   
man's nose and he felt his lower lip breaking, the taste of his own blood coming   
to his mouth.  
  
He was good, he had to gave him that.  
  
But he, Damon Frost, was better.  
  
When the silent Oriental man's arm reached out to him, Damon, who was still   
grabbing the rolled-up whip as if his life depended on it, brought it up and let   
his fist pass through the irregular leather circle.  
  
Then, before Bushido could take his arm out of it, Damon twisted the whip and,   
trapping his elbow and bringing it behind his head, flipped the man over his   
shoulder and to the ground with a judo lock.  
  
Before the Oriental man could even regain his breath and while he kept him   
immobilized with his arm painfully twisted behind his head and his knees to the   
ground, Damon freed the whip with a crack and rolled it around his neck, tensing   
it with a hard yank.  
  
Bushido grunted and panted, his windpipe suddenly closed, and struggled wildly   
in Damon's grasp, trying to get free. As a response, the young hit man just   
tightened the hug of the whip, choking the air out of his lungs until he felt   
him weakening and finally passing out because of the lack of oxygen in his   
brain.  
  
Unrolling the leather whip from his neck and placing his bare left foot on the   
man's back, Damon pushed him to the hard ground, directing a smug grin towards   
the mercenary colonel and his sergeant.  
  
"End of the lesson," he said with contentment, carelessly throwing the whip   
aside and beginning to walk away.  
  
As the young hit man turned his back on the group of soldiers, the sergeant   
placed his hand on the butt of his pistol, popping opening the safety strap with   
his thumb.  
  
"Don't even think about it," Ashe warned him in a whispering tone.  
  
"But, sir..." the man with the scar protested.  
  
"But nothing," the mercenary colonel told him with a harsh tone. "We have a job   
to do. When we've finished it and received our pay, then there'll be time to   
settle personal accounts. Until then, we follow Mr. Egoyan's orders, am I   
understood?"  
  
"Yes, sir," the sergeant grunted, not very convinced.  
  
The two of them turned around to look at Bushido's still body on the ground,   
surrounded by the rest of his mildly amused comrades. "And tell Scout to take a   
look at Bushido, will you?" Ashe added, almost as an afterthought. "Lord knows   
we're going to need him."  
  
When Damon re-entered the mansion, padding barefoot on the cold marble floor,   
Faith was waiting for him, leaning sexily on one of the tall columns near the   
main door, safely away from the arch of daylight entering through it.  
  
"Did you have fun, toyboy?" she asked him with a cocky smile.  
  
Returning the smile and looking at her with his head slightly tilted to one side   
as he hid his hands in the pockets of his jeans, Damon took a couple of steps   
towards her and shrugged slightly. =God, she's beautiful.=  
  
He had never exactly liked Xander, that was no secret, but until then Damon had   
never believed he was stupid either. Now, looking at what the boy had rejected,   
he was beginning to think otherwise.  
  
Well, if he played his cards right, he could make his gain out of the young   
vampire's loss.  
  
"I'd be lying if I said otherwise," he told her, leaning close enough to her to   
make the former Slayer feel the heat radiating from his human body. "Have I   
impressed you?"  
  
Raising an eyebrow, Faith made the international sign for 'so-so' with her hand.   
"You should know by now that I'm very hard to please, Damon."  
  
Chuckling, the young hit man tried to bring his mouth against hers, but the   
vampiress sidestepped him, passing right under his arm and beginning to get   
further into the twisted corridors of the mansion.  
  
"Uh-oh," he chanted with a sing-song voice after kissing the empty air,   
"someone's not in a good mood to-day!"  
  
"And how did you arrive at such a bright deduction, smartass?" she practically   
growled, not bothering at looking back to see if he followed her or not.  
  
Doing so, and hiding again his hands in his pockets with a nonchalant attitude,   
Damon hurried to her side. "I can just feel it in the air," he said with   
sarcasm, "it's like a sixth sense. You know," he looked at her playfully and   
turned his voice into a haunting tone, "'sometimes I see dead people'."  
  
At her evident lack of amusement and hostile sideways glance, Damon just sighed,   
letting his shoulders sink down in defeat. "OK, baby, I surrender. Where are we   
going?"  
  
"To the library," Faith told him succinctly. "Egoyan wants to see us."  
  
=So that's it.= She was going to learn what it was everyone was going on about,   
and she was getting nervous. Damon looked at the former Slayer through   
half-closed and inquiring eyes.  
  
The former Slayer was more than nervous; it didn't matter how much she wanted to   
hide it, it didn't matter how strong her façade was, he could see right through   
her. She was scared.  
  
Good, he could take advantage of that.  
  
They finally arrived at the huge double doors, and Damon gently laid his hand on   
the small of her back in a gesture that was both familiar, comforting and   
possessive, guiding her into the library.  
  
She just sent a surprised look towards him, but made no effort to get away from   
his contact or show any sign of finding it uncomfortable.  
  
Far from it, his warm hand felt surprisingly good on the smooth curve of her   
back.  
  
As always, Egoyan was near the eternally burning fireplace, looking older,   
sicker, weaker and more tired than ever. But, nevertheless, when he saw the duo   
entering into the room and the air of closeness between them, his eyes seemed to   
come to life and turn into blazing blue hells.  
  
Smiling defiantly at him, Damon let himself fall into one of the seats and,   
without uttering a word, gently made Faith sit across his lap, one hand between   
her shoulder-blades and the other comfortably placed on one of her smooth   
thighs.  
  
She looked at him with renewed surprise and a good dose of annoyance but, when   
his hand began to slowly and soothingly travel up and down the soft skin of her   
leg and stroke her, she found herself about to start purring.  
  
Faith even had to bite her lower lip not to moan, when his warm fingertips   
traced a particularly sensitive spot on the inner side of her thigh.  
  
Damon locked his black eyes with the old man's ones, and smiled smugly. He felt   
like a young wolf questioning the authority of leader of the pack, and he was   
enjoying it immensely.  
  
Maybe it wasn't the wisest thing to do, but he had always been a rebel at heart.   
It was what had always gotten him into trouble.  
  
With a snort, Egoyan ignored him and motioned to Mr. Smith, who walked away from   
his spot by the flickering shadows by the fireplace and rolled the old man close   
to the couple.  
  
"The time for the first move of the game has finally arrived," the Chess Player   
told them, looking uncomfortably at their obvious intimacy.  
  
"I thought that it was the white side that moved first in chess," Faith said,   
slapping away Damon's hand when it became too bold in its exploration of her   
thighs.  
  
Egoyan just raised his eyebrows. "My game, my rules."  
  
"It wouldn't hurt us if you explained some of those rules," Damon commented   
almost absent-mindedly. "You know, before all of us need a wheelchair to move   
around."  
  
While Faith covered her mouth to hide her giggles, the old man looked at him   
with hateful eyes, barely repressing his anger. "I would like it if you showed   
some signs of respect towards me, Mr. Frost. After all, I'm the one who is   
paying your bills."  
  
Damon sighed, and massaged the back of his neck tiredly. "You see, Broderick,   
it's like this – you're paying me for doing something which I'm very good at;   
but you still haven't told me exactly what the job is, hence my confusion and   
lack of... manners. I'm getting bored with this."  
  
"Yeah," the former Slayer agreed, "I'm with him on that."  
  
Shaking slightly his head to one side, Egoyan finally let a twisted smile appear   
on his wrinkled face. "I guess that fair's enough, after all. If the truth be   
told," he said, leaning back in his wheelchair. "it is quite an easy matter. I   
want something, and in order to get it I need something that is in the   
possession of our common friends on the other side of the board. Now, it would   
be pointless to say that they won't be eager to help me in that matter. This is   
where I need you."  
  
"You've gotten some pretty powerful aid," Faith said, "don't you think it's a   
little too much overkill?"  
  
This time, it was Damon who snorted. "No, baby," he told her, "knowing who we're   
going to face, it is the right amount of overkill."  
  
"Exactly," the old man said with a smile. "Nevertheless, as I already told Mr.   
Frost, the strength of our opponents is not based on the sum of their respective   
abilities, but in the way they are linked to each other. Their strength is not   
so much in themselves, as it is in the ties that bind them together."  
  
Smiling, Damon raised a sandy-haired eyebrow. "And you want us to..."  
  
Egoyan leaned forward, his clear blue eyes locked into the young hit man's black   
ones. "Cut those ties, Mr. Frost. Destroy the family before annihilating each   
one of its members."  
  
Damon nodded in silence. "And when do you want us to begin?"  
  
The old man crossed his hands on his lap, and leaned back in his chair. "Right   
now would be the perfect moment." Making a small gesture to the tall black man   
behind him, Egoyan looked straight into Damon's face. "It's time for you to   
demonstrate all those professional skills you like to talk about, Damon."  
  
Towering over them like a dark totem, Smith took out a folded piece of paper   
from the interior of his jacket and offered it to the young hit man. "Michael   
Deveraux has an appointment for lunch this afternoon," he said with his usual   
cold and controlled tone, "he will be alone with his companion."  
  
"It will be a perfect moment for you to... make peace with him," Egoyan told him   
as Damon got up from his seat, almost throwing Faith to the floor in his haste   
to grab the piece of paper. "That is, if you really think you are able to...   
bring him down. I could provide you with some help, if you'd like."  
  
Making an effort to control the shake of his hands, the clear show of the   
adrenaline suddenly running through his veins, Damon looked at the paper, taking   
long and cleansing breaths. "That won't be necessary."  
  
The old man looked at him with a sardonic half-smile, pleased to be the one with   
the upper hand. "Are you sure? After all, he taught you everything you know."  
  
The look that Damon sent him could have frozen the fires of Hell. "I've learnt   
some new tricks since then."  
  
"Very well then," Egoyan said, rolling away with what seemed like renewed   
strength. "Do me this favor, Mr. Frost, and do it yourself," he looked intently   
at him with cold blue eyes and when he spoke, the temperature of the room seemed   
to descend to the same level of the Arctic core.  
  
"Kill Michael Deveraux, Damon. Destroy the pillar that supports the house, and   
watch how the whole building collapses down."  
  
~~~~~~  
  
Rituals. Life is full of them. Sometimes, not even in death can you get rid of   
them.  
  
Holding each of the items in his two hands, Xander faced the same decision he   
had to take every morning – knowing that he had only one possible choice.  
  
But he refused to stop this bittersweet game he played, as if he was putting a   
finger inside an open wound, reveling in the sharp pain that action caused into   
his mind, heart and soul. Not for the first time, he wondered if he truly was a   
born masochist.  
  
In his right hand, a thin flask full of a colorless serum. In his left, a   
plastic bag full of dark, red and tantalizing blood.  
  
As said, no real choice. Not to him, at least.  
  
HR-4, that was what the serum was called, a tiny hope given to him by science to   
challenge what was a work of magic and onto which he had hung on by his   
fingertips. Knowing it meant his only chance not to be hooked like a junkie, to   
the red and vital liquid he held in his other hand.  
  
As with other things in his life, a failure.  
  
Finally, the tolerance he had developed towards the serum had made it   
practically useless to him. What at first had served him to avoid feeding for   
days, was now only able to postpone the hunger for a few hours.  
  
Basically, it was only useful to calm him down if, being wounded in action, the   
hunger dominated him.  
  
Sighing with resignation, Xander returned the serum flask to the interior of the   
fridge and closed its door; he walked back to the kitchen table on bare feet,   
carrying the blood-bag with him.  
  
He was about to slip his game face on and sink his fangs into it,   
when he noticed Cordelia walking into the kitchen, wearing nothing more than his   
crimson velvet shirt and a sleepy but happy smile on her perfect lips.  
  
"Hi," she said, hiding a small yawn with his fist, and leaned closer to him to   
place a soft kiss on his cheek. "Watcha doin'?"  
  
"I was going to, uh," he shook the bag sheepishly, "have breakfast."  
  
Smiling as she opened the fridge to retrieve a big bottle of OJ, Cordelia shook   
her head when she noticed that he had placed the bag aside and, crossing his   
hands on the table, was looking away as if he was waiting for something.  
  
"If you're waiting to be alone," she said while sitting down in front of him, "I   
should warn you that I don't intend going anywhere."  
  
As she served herself a large glass of the cold juice, Xander sighed and shook   
his head. "Cordy..."  
  
"Don't you Cordy me, Xander," she told him, "if I was able to stand those   
horrible shirts you used to wear all the time, I think I'm perfectly able to see   
you drinking a little blood. Come on," she added, pushing the bag back to him,   
"feed."  
  
"I'm not hungry anymore," he lied with a stubborn expression, ignoring the bag.  
  
"You're like a child," she grunted with annoyance. Before she could stop her,   
Cordelia got up from her chair and grabbed the blood-bag, quickly walking toward   
the kitchen's counter with decided steps.  
  
"What are you doing?!" he exclaimed with surprise, looking with wide-open eyes   
as she took a mug from the closet over the counter and, with a set of cooking   
scissors, cut open one of the corners of the bag.  
  
"You have to understand something, Xander Harris – we're in this together," she   
told him as she filled the mug with blood, making a soft grimace, and then   
placed it inside the microwave oven.  
  
After switching it on and while the blood was warmed up inside it, the brunette   
knelt down beside him, taking his hands in hers and looking up at his brown and   
troubled eyes. "If you want me to accept everything you have to offer me,   
Xander, your kindness, your strength, your soul, you have to let me in and see   
everything that's inside of you."  
  
Once more, Xander sighed and looked away from her eyes, almost unable to hold   
the strong gaze of her hazel orbs. "I would like to keep some things to myself,   
Cordy. I don't want you to see them."  
  
"But I have to," she insisted, "otherwise it will be as if I never really knew   
you."  
  
The microwave dinged and Cordelia lost no time in standing up and retrieving the   
mug from inside it, placing it with its dark contents in front of the young   
vampire. "This is one of those things, isn't it?" Xander sighed.  
  
"What things?"  
  
He shrugged. "You know, one of those commitment things you do to strengthen a   
relationship. Like choosing new curtains together, and all the other things you   
girls like so much."  
  
Raising an eyebrow, Cordelia pushed the steaming mug towards him. "Feed," she   
simply commanded him.  
  
Knowing he had no way out, Xander let his shoulders sink down in surrender.   
"Yes, ma'am," he said, taking the mug.  
  
"OK," he said to himself in a low tone, "coffee, it's nothing more than coffee."  
  
Bringing the mug to his lips, Xander began to drink the warmed-up vital liquid –   
and almost immediately, it was as if something had exploded inside his brain.  
  
He gulped the blood down eagerly, slurping it as if his life depended on it, his   
taste-buds inflamed by the incomparable metallic flavor of the red liquid.   
Delicious, it was simply delicious.  
  
Grunting when he finished it, the young vampire licked the rim of the mug and   
the interior of it as far as he was able to reach with his tongue, leaving the   
china almost as clean as a whistle.  
  
"So, you weren't hungry, huh?" Cordelia observed with amusement.  
  
Xander just looked at her sheepishly and gently took the mug to the counter,   
quickly washing it and putting it to dry. "I guess I was, after all," he   
admitted with a half-smile.  
  
Shaking her head, Cordelia hugged him from behind and kissed him on the side of   
the neck, reaching out to gently bite his earlobe.  
  
"Hey!" he softly protested.  
  
"That's to remind you that you're not the only one with sharp teeth, Xander,"   
she warned him, leaning her chin on his shoulder.  
  
Chuckling, Xander managed to get out from her arms and, taking one of her hands   
in his, gently began to drag her back to his room.  
  
"What are you doing?" she asked, although a very nice image of what she wanted   
him to do to her was already beginning to form inside her mind.  
  
"I want to give you something," he said, offering an enigmatic and twisted smile   
to her. "A gift."  
  
"Mmm," she smiled wickedly, "something perverse?"  
  
He shook his head, opening the door to his room. "Maybe later."  
  
Leading her until she sat on the still-unmade bed, Xander finally broke away   
from Cordelia. He opened one of the drawers on his bureau and rummaged between   
the neatly folded up pieces of cloth stored there until he found a small   
package, wrapped up into a wrinkled, discolored and worn out gift paper.  
  
For just a second, Xander held it in his hands and smiled with a bittersweet   
lost expression.  
  
"I was going to give you this, along with the perfume for our first   
anniversary," he said, turning around and sitting down on the bed cross-legged.   
He looked at her with that same expression as before, and Cordelia didn't know   
whether to feel tenderness or pain at seeing his sad brown eyes. "But I guess we   
lost that chance, huh?"  
  
"What is this?" she asked with a curious smile, taking the package from Xander's   
hands.  
  
As she gently unwrapped it, discovering a little jewel-box, the young vampire   
looked at her with a warm smile of affection and thought back to all the times   
he had dreamed of this moment.  
  
They hadn't been happy times, far from it; that little box covered by blue   
velvet had been a painful reminder of all the things he had lost when he escaped   
from Sunnydale, of all the moments of loneliness and sorrow he had endured in   
the last few years.  
  
But, at the same time, it was also a symbol of hope – of the inner strength that   
had allowed him to surpass them.  
  
Many nights, looking at that velvet box had been the only thing that had kept   
him sane. "Open it," he told her gently.  
  
With a shiver of excitement and a warm smile, the brunette young woman did as   
she was told, opening the box with shaking hands.  
  
Inside it there were two cracks, obviously designed to hold two rings; but only   
one of them was occupied at the moment, holding an ornate silver ring,   
magnificent in its single beauty and in the careful engravings on it.  
  
"Xander, it's..." Cordelia was just rendered speechless, examining in awe the   
ring and how the light reflected the strange engravings on it. It seemed like   
some kind of language, but the brunette young woman wasn't able to recognize it.  
  
Taking the small ring in her hand, Cordelia found it surprisingly cold and heavy   
for just a second before it seemed to warm up and get lighter. "It's beautiful,"   
she said simply, shaking her head in wonder.  
  
Smiling, Xander took it from the palm of her hand and gently slipped it on the   
ring-finger of her left hand. Much to her own surprise, it fit perfectly, as if   
it had been designed just for her.  
  
"Xander," she shook her head, "this has to be very expensive, I can't..."  
  
He silenced her with a soft kiss on her mouth, interlacing his fingers with   
hers, feeling the new tactile sensation of the ring on her hand. To him, it felt   
like the right thing to do, although he didn't want to think very much about the   
true meaning of what he had just done.  
  
"Did I ever tell you about my grandmother?" he asked her in a soft tone, once   
their lips had broken apart, his hand never letting hers get away.  
  
At Cordelia's soft shake of her head, Xander got up for a short moment to   
retrieve a picture from his box of treasures, which was placed on his bedside   
table, before quickly returning to his lover's side.  
  
It was the same picture he had shown Buffy just two nights ago, the one of his   
grandmother holding him as a baby.  
  
Unlike Buffy, Cordelia didn't need to ask anything or say any comment about it,   
she just looked at the photo and then at Xander with a soft smile. It was her   
precious hazel eyes who spoke for her, telling him that she knew and understood.  
  
The love, the affection, the special relationship between them, all of it just   
with a mere look at the picture in her hands.  
  
"I wish I'd known her," Cordelia whispered almost reverently. "I bet she was one   
hell of a woman."  
  
Xander chuckled softly, nodding in agreement. "You can bet your life on it,   
Cor."  
  
"This was hers?" she asked, making the ring spin around her finger.  
  
The young vampire nodded once more, smiling with affection. "It's been in my   
mother's family for ages, passed from mother to daughter with each generation.   
Our only tradition and treasure, if you want to call it that."  
  
Cordelia frowned in confusion. "And why doesn't your mother have it?"  
  
He shrugged, a slightly bitter expression flashing across his features for an   
instant. "Mom never wanted to wear it, I don't know why and my grandma never   
insisted on it."  
  
He shook his head softly, with a thoughtful expression. "They were so different,   
that I used to wonder how it was possible they shared the same blood... anyway,   
I know Grandma would love it if you had it, Cordy. As much as she would have   
loved you."  
  
"Are you sure?" she asked, with a surprising lack of certainty.  
  
"Are you joking?" he brought a hand to her face, cupping her soft and warm   
cheek. "You're a lot like her, now that I think about it. Beautiful, resolute,   
brave..." he smiled crookedly at her, "...and incredibly stubborn."  
  
"Hey!" she slapped him playfully on his shoulder as the young vampire dissolved   
into laughter, falling down on the bed when she practically jumped onto him and   
tackled him down. "Stop that!"  
  
"Never!" he exclaimed between laughs, struggling to get free from her grasp but   
enjoying it too much to put any real effort into it.  
  
"Stop it," she menaced him, "or I... I..."  
  
Xander raised an eyebrow, with smug expectancy. "You what?"  
  
Cordelia looked down at him defiantly, letting a twisted smile cross her   
beautiful lips. "Sometimes you think too much of yourself, Xander Harris."  
  
He chuckled, genuinely amused. "Oh, do I?"  
  
She nodded slowly, and smiled with perversity. "I think you need to be put into   
your place, young man."  
  
Before he could do anything to prevent it, Cordelia straddled his waist with her   
legs and captured his wrists, bringing them up and over his head. Not for the   
first time, Xander wondered at how strong she really was. "I think you need   
some... discipline."  
  
Xander gulped, soundly. "Well, I, uh, I..."  
  
She leaned over him, placing her lips over his and kissing him hot and hungrily,   
parting them and slipping her warm and wet tongue inside his mouth, tracing each   
nook and cranny of his interior like a curious and eager explorer.  
  
She tasted some traces of blood still in his saliva, mixed with his own dark and   
dangerous flavor. But, surprisingly to her, she found the metallic taste wildly   
exciting as it almost burned her taste-buds at the contact of his own tongue.  
  
Erotic, that was the only word she was able to conjure up to define the   
sensation that was setting her belly on fire.  
  
Breaking away from him, she trapped his lower lip between her teeth, carefully   
yanking at it and then slow and sensually sucking it until it finally slipped   
out of her lips.  
  
Xander gulped again, a moronic wide smile filling his mouth. "Will you be gentle   
with me?" he asked.  
  
She shook her head slowly, her hazel eyes fixed on his brown ones. "No."  
  
His smile grew even wider, if such a thing was possible. "Good."  
  
As she brought her mouth against his for a new and fierce kiss, Xander could   
only close his eyes and let the wild hurricane that was Cordelia Chase sweep him   
away. Knowing that, no matter where she would take him, it would always be a   
better and safer place.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
Rituals. Life is full of them, no matter how unnaturally long it can be.  
  
Each morning, as the sun entered through the venetian blinds of his bedroom, the   
French Immortal known as Michael Deveraux propped up his head against his hand   
and looked down at the sleeping and peaceful body of his lover.  
  
He marveled at the way that the soft light of the dawn seemed to draw lines of   
gold on her smooth and flawless skin, feeling his heart trying to burst out of   
his chest with the love he felt for this beautiful woman.  
  
Sometimes, he even dared to lower the sheets covering them just a little, right   
below the line of her shoulder-blades until he was able to see the little tattoo   
she had behind her right shoulder.  
  
A tiny blue fleur-de-lis. His mark, she had told him once, because she was his.   
Forever.  
  
In retaliation, he had tattooed himself a small red rose in the same place on   
his body, just because her second name was Rosa, like her Spanish grandmother;   
and because, as he liked to joke, she was a beautiful flower with some really   
dangerous spines.  
  
By definition, it was her mark, because he was hers. Forever.  
  
And as he looked down at that tiny blue drawing on her otherwise perfect and   
slightly tanned skin, he remembered times past – smiling when they were happy   
memories, or with a sadder expression when they weren't so.  
  
Three hundred and thirty five years endows you with a lot of memories – and   
there were both good and bad ones, but all of them had led him to the place   
where he was now, so he wouldn't trade any of them for anything in the world.  
  
Well... most of them.  
  
Some of those memories were so painful, so raw, that the wounds that they opened   
in his soul were still bleeding even after so much time. And, even when he   
didn't reject them, Michael wished he would be able to change the facts that had   
caused them.  
  
But after all, he was only human, and there were things that were beyond his   
abilities, desires or understanding. Like a mortal man, he sometimes wondered if   
there was really a God in the heavens above, if he really looked down at His   
creatures on Earth and if He cared about them at all.  
  
He wondered why things were like they were, why he had given the chance for   
happiness and why it had been denied to others that, maybe with greater reasons   
than the ones for himself, had also deserved it.  
  
If there was one thing he had learnt to do in his more-than-lengthy existence,   
it was not to dwell on the past – but to live in the present, and to have hopes   
for the future.  
  
And the present was this moment in time, this bed, this woman in his arms and   
this silly smile coming to his lips as he remembered the previous night, the   
laughter, the friendship, the love shared and expressed in its purest physical   
form.  
  
Shaking his head at his own sappiness, Michael leaned closer to Rachel's still   
sleepy form. And, as he took her into his arms and his hands began exploring the   
soft valleys and smooth mountains of her body, he planted a slow and   
open-mouthed kiss on her tattoo. His tongue darting out just a little, so he   
could taste the salty flavor of her skin.  
  
She turned around into his arms, never getting out of his embrace, and, with   
half-opened and still sleepy eyes, smiled at him as her own arms hugged him   
close to her.  
  
"Mi pequeña rosa española," he whispered, kissing her fully on the lips. "No   
sabes cuanto te deseo."  
  
"Mmm," she moaned, making him turn so her naked body was lying on top of his,   
"you know I can't resist it when you talk to me like that, mi guapo francesito."  
  
Michael chuckled, stretching her against himself and planting a kiss on her   
forehead. "Why can't things always be like this?"  
  
Leaning her head on his chest, Rachel sighed with resignation. "You're thinking   
about him again?"  
  
Blinking and sighing, Michael nodded slowly. "Twice in two days, I thought I'd   
gotten over it."  
  
Turning her head so her chin was leaning on his breastbone, the brunette   
Immortal looked at her lover with attentive eyes. "I would think less of you if   
you'd be able to discard his memory with such ease, Michael. You loved him with   
all your heart and soul, I was there and I saw how painful it was for you when   
he died."  
  
This time, it was Michael who looked down at her with half-closed eyes. "And   
you?" he asked, not missing the slight tone of bitterness that her voice had   
carried. "He was also your friend."  
  
"Yeah, friends..." Rachel avoided his eyes and extricated herself from his arms   
so slowly that Michael almost didn't feel her doing so. She just shook her head   
slowly and, much to his surprise, the French Immortal thought he had caught a   
glimpse of wetness there for a short second.  
  
"It's getting late," she whispered, with a tone that was unstable and forced. "I   
promised Cordy we'd go out for a jog, before she had to go to class."  
  
Michael watched in confused astonishment as his girlfriend got out of the bed   
and, naked as the day she was born, padded softly to the bathroom without   
looking back at him.  
  
"Was it something I said?" he asked to the empty air with a small frown, once   
she had disappeared into it.  
  
As she stepped into the bathroom and closed the door behind herself, Rachel   
almost fell down and had to lean her back on the wooden surface to keep herself   
upright on her suddenly weak knees.  
  
It wasn't fair, it wasn't right. Not now, not when everything was seeming to be   
going so well for the two of them.  
  
=He has the right to know,= she told herself as her soft brown eyes looked up at   
the immaculate white ceiling of the bathroom, =I should tell him. I should have   
told him right after it happened. Why is it I can't?=  
  
=Because he won't understand,= another voice, that was also her own, answering   
her silent question. =He would blame you. Damon is dead, and there is nothing   
you can do about it now. Don't rock the boat. Don't make waves.=  
  
'Don't make waves'. So long ago, when she had still been a normal mortal human   
being, her husband used to tell her that, to inculcate those single three words   
in her as if they were a dogma upon which to base her whole existence.  
  
Often, he had tried to carve them onto her with his fists, leaving some marks on   
her body that had healed long ago and others in her soul that would never   
disappear.  
  
Don't make waves, don't call attention. Never think yourself good enough for   
anything... it had been more than seventy years since that and, still, it was   
like a cold hand clenching her heart.  
  
But Michael Deveraux had changed all that. With his love, his friendship, his   
smile... and she had tried to return all the beauty, the hope and the love he   
had brought into her life with the same strength, passion and undying loyalty.   
She had tried her best to do so.  
  
Still, reduced to her simplest denominator, she was just a human being, with the   
same flaws and ability to make mistakes as any other woman. She had failed him   
once –but, looking at it in retrospect, it was easy to see that the real failure   
had been her second mistake.  
  
Her lie, her inability to trust in her loved one to know the ultimate   
consequences, that was what had constituted the real betrayal, the final error.  
  
And now, like a ball of snow rolling down a hill, it was as if it was growing   
and growing, getting harder and more painful to hide with each passing day.  
  
She had to tell him, he had the right to know the truth about Damon Frost. And   
about herself.  
  
As she leaned against the bathroom's sink and looked at her own reflection in   
the mirror, she had a hard time trying to recognize herself. There were slow,   
silent tears running down her face, covering her tanned cheeks with shining and   
wet streaks.  
  
But, not even to save her own life, was she able to remember when she'd started   
crying.  
  
She had to tell him the truth.  
  
They say that the truth will set you free, but Rachel just wished that it   
wouldn't destroy the both of them.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
Once Damon had gone out of the library, Broderick Egoyan asked Faith to stay a   
little while, guiding her back to what seemed to be her favorite spot on the   
largest couch of the room.  
  
He smiled at her as she made herself comfortable on it, bringing her long and   
smooth legs over the soft tapestry and leaning slightly sideways like a   
beautiful and undead Dressed Maja.  
  
"Can I offer you anything?" he asked, while making a silent gesture towards Mr.   
Smith who, as always, remained on a second plane behind his master like an ebony   
shadow. "Something to drink?"  
  
The former Slayer shook her head softly, looking at him with inquisitive brown   
eyes. "No, thanks."  
  
"Oh, please," he said, as Smith placed a small service table by Faith's couch   
and poured a generous dose of amber liquor from a ornate crystal bottle in a   
equally carved glass. "Come now, indulge me. At my age, I have to enjoy even the   
simplest pleasures through others' senses."  
  
"That's why you want immortality?" Faith asked with a risen eyebrow, accepting   
the glass from Mr. Smith's large hand and then looking out of the corner of her   
eye how he seemed to vanish into the shadows behind the old man. "To enjoy again   
the pleasures of youth?"  
  
Egoyan offered her a half-smile, and nodded slowly. "I knew you'd understand me,   
Miss Adams. Although I guess it's difficult to imagine for someone who has not   
experienced how it is to see your own body betraying you, decaying with the   
passage of time, getting weaker and..."  
  
He looked down at his own trembling, wrinkled hands and shook his head weakly,   
with the ghost of a sad smile twisting up the corners of his lips.  
  
"Once upon a time, there was nothing that these hands weren't able to do, there   
was no goal I couldn't achieve and no mountain I couldn't climb." He raised his   
pale blue eyes to her, freezing the undead Slayer to the spot with the intensity   
of his gaze.  
  
"You'll never know how it feels, you'll always stay young, vital..." Before she   
could do anything to prevent it, the old man reached out to take an errant lock   
of her brown hair between his fingers.  
  
His skin was as rough against her cheek, as her hair was silky between his   
fingers.  
  
"...beautiful," he concluded with a twisted grimace, that almost made her   
shiver.  
  
Fighting to hide her expression of distaste, Faith recoiled almost instinctively   
in her seat, trying to get farther away from the old man and hiding her face in   
the carved crystal glass and taking a long sip of the amber liquor. It was hard   
and strong, and it warmed her cold insides as it went down her throat and   
esophagus.  
  
"So, you, uh," she said nonchalantly as she avoided his eyes, feeling   
uncomfortable under Egoyan's gaze, "you've decided to change the course of   
nature for your own benefit."  
  
"Exactly," he almost whispered, leaning his bony chin on his hand as he looked   
at her with curiosity, like a cat about to jump on a mouse.  
  
"And how do you intend to do that?"  
  
The old Chess Player shrugged with disinterest. "A little magic here, a little   
spell there..."  
  
This time, her eyes looked up with interest, boring into the old man's figure.   
"Are you a warlock?"  
  
With the same smile that a father would give to a child that had asked an   
innocent but stupid question, he said, "Of course not – that's why I've   
requested Mr. Swann's services, dear."  
  
She arched her brow, nodding slowly. "I was wondering what his role was here."  
  
Egoyan rolled his cold eyes with boredom. "Darling, as much as I would love to   
spend the next few hours speaking about my good friend Conrad," he said with   
mild sarcasm, "the truth is that we have much more important things to talk   
about."  
  
"Like?"  
  
He smiled smugly, knowing the impact that his next words would have on her.   
"Like your beloved Xander, for example."  
  
As he had thought, Faith almost jumped to her feet, adopting a more alert   
posture and nailing her brown eyes on his thin figure. "It's time to clarify   
some points about your childe."  
  
She looked at him with complete attention, slowly biting her own lower lip, but   
saying nothing at first.  
  
Slowly rolling away from her and back to the fireplace, where he could have his   
old bones warmed up by the crackling fire, Egoyan smiled inwardly, showing his   
back to her. "You know he's special, but I'm afraid you can't figure yet to what   
point he really is."  
  
"Why don't you explain it to me?" she asked, getting up from the couch and,   
after leaving the half-empty glass on the small table, walking close to him.  
  
The old man crossed his knotty fingers and took a long breath. "What do you know   
about Immortals, Faith?"  
  
"Immortals?" the former Slayer looked at him with puzzlement. "What do you   
mean?"  
  
He turned around in his wheelchair and raised his eyes to hers, an   
indecipherable expression in them. "Let me tell you a little fairy tale, my   
dear. A tale with beautiful princesses, evil demons and brave knights..."  
  
~~~~~~  
  
Xander absent-mindedly caressed Cordelia's hair and placed soft, silent kisses   
on the crown of her head, sinking his nose in her silky dark brown mane,   
drinking the sweet aroma of her perfume.  
  
With the back of her head leaned on his bare chest, Cordelia examined with   
wonder the silver ring around her finger, the symbol of his commitment to her.  
  
To put it in simple terms, it was beautiful, and it made her feel different...   
somehow special and unique.  
  
It made her recover that silly and sappy teenage sensation she had felt a few   
weeks before his - their - fall, when she had found herself often day-dreaming   
in the middle of class, writing the different possibilities of her future name   
in a corner of her notebook.  
  
Cordelia Harris. Cordelia Harris-Chase. Cordelia Chase-Harris... it had been   
silly. It had been wonderful.  
  
And it was wonderful again. Even through the darkness that menaced their lives,   
even when both of them knew that with the way they had chosen to live them there   
was a permanent sword of Damocles hanging over their heads – it felt like, as   
long as they were together, as long as they didn't allow anything to come   
between them, nothing could ever harm them.  
  
Their love, their passion made each other stronger, more even than the mere sum   
of their parts.  
  
She smiled to herself with a secret smile, feeling her heart and her soul warmed   
by the love and the passion she felt for the young vampiric Immortal holding her   
so tenderly.  
  
She knew, with a clarity that was mystical, that they were just made for each   
other.  
  
That they had always been predestined to be together, from the very beginning.   
The May Queen and the class clown, the brave white knight and the beautiful   
damsel, the powerful Master vampire and his chosen mate, bound together   
eternally like the rivulets of gold and silver on the ring around her finger...   
  
She frowned and blinked repeatedly, as she tilted her head slightly to one side   
in confusion and examined the ring closely. Gold? There hadn't been gold on the   
ring a moment before...   
  
Suddenly, she felt it growing heavy and cold again against her skin, as it had   
been when she had first taken it from the velvet box. And just for an almost   
impossible-to-perceive moment, it seemed to glow with an energy that came from   
inside it – and then, the light of the morning refracted on its surface,   
blinding her completely.  
  
She whimpered with surprise and, when she opened her hazel eyes, she found   
herself in a completely different world. Or, at least, that was how it seemed to   
her.  
  
There was darkness there, and it was cold too. But there was no fear, because   
they were together, as they had always been, as they always would be. The evil   
one was close and they were scared, because they knew that the moment of their   
final fate would come with him.  
  
But they also knew that there was no force in this world, not even in the next   
one or in Hell that would be able to tear them apart, and they found their own   
strength in this knowledge.  
  
Strength in the idea that, no matter what, they had already achieved the real   
prize, the one that could only be given from the real love freely given and   
taken, that only could happen when two separate souls became one.  
  
She looked down at his gentle brown eyes and found them different, strange. They   
were smaller, more feminine, but they had the same warmth and strong resolve.  
  
She heard his voice, and found it different, strange. Softer, smoother, but it   
held the same strength and passion it had always carried.  
  
'Will you be careful, my love?'  
  
Even when her head didn't move, her field of vision changed and she saw her own   
hand reaching our to take his slender and soft one. Her hand was big and strong,   
callused and deeply tanned by the constant exposure to the sun.  
  
It was a man's hand and, around his ring-finger there was that same silver ring,   
now showing interlaced and ornate veins of gold. Her loved one carried a twin   
ring on her slender hand, shining under the light of the harsh sun.  
  
Her voice, when she spoke, was deep and masculine, ragged by the emotion and the   
worry. 'You know I'll come back to you, no matter what; no matter what danger I   
confront, no matter what darkness I find... nothing will keep us apart. I   
promise this to you, my love.'  
  
The darkness came back, engulfing her like an ocean wave, rocking and throwing   
her far away into the troubled waters of time. She felt lost and blind in that   
endless dark ocean, in that eternal and untimely night. She tried to scream, but   
her voice wasn't able to pass the barrier of her lips.  
  
And then she felt him again, his strong arms around her, holding her tightly   
against his broad and hard chest, his animated heart beating against her back   
and his breath caressing the soft hairs at the crook of her neck as his warm   
lips traced his skin.  
  
She blinked her eyes open. Xander's bedroom at the warehouse, the light of the   
morning filtering through the venetian blinds, the bed, warm and slightly wet   
because of their recent and ardent lovemaking, firm and soft under her body...   
the ring around her finger... a completely normal silver ring.  
  
No traces of gold, no weird glowing, no strange sensation, nothing at all...   
  
Cordelia shook her head in confusion, trying to make the cobwebs vanish from her   
mind. It was an unsettling sensation the one she was feeling right then –   
because, much to her own surprise, it wasn't really alien to her. It was more   
like déjà vu, like having a name on the tip of your tongue and not being able to   
remember it.  
  
It wasn't a hallucination, it wasn't a fantasy... a memory, a remembrance, a   
feeling... as if it had all begun long ago...   
  
"Are you alright?" she heard Xander softly asking in her ear, bringing her out   
of her reverie. "You were shivering."  
  
"No, I was just..." she turned her head slightly around to look at him and her   
voice trailed off. It had happened to her before, she remembered it clearly now.  
  
Once, as she tried to guide a bunch of school kids against a power-hungry Mayor   
and his groups of vampire minions and survive at the same time. A flash. A   
vision. A memory. "...daydreaming. Can I ask you something?"  
  
He nodded slowly, looking down at her with curiosity. "Sure."  
  
"This ring," she said, showing it to him. "There was another one, wasn't there?   
A twin..."  
  
=...that you should be wearing,= she completed the sentence without actually   
voicing it, not really knowing why.  
  
Xander opened his eyes wide with surprise, as he took her slender hand in his   
and examined the ring in a closer way. "Yeah, they were actually wedding   
rings..."  
  
She looked at him, raising an eyebrow and half-smiling, but he just looked away,   
chuckling nervously. "Well, uh, they used to be wedding rings, but the other one   
was lost long ago. Grandma never told me the exact facts... but, how'd you know   
that?"  
  
She shrugged softly, avoiding his eyes as she played with the silver ring.   
"There were two spaces in the velvet box, I just figured it out," she lied, once   
again without knowing why. There was something about it, about that ring and   
about them that was important somehow.  
  
But, instinctively, she also knew it was neither the time nor the place to talk   
about it.  
  
Xander looked at her not really convinced, but shook his head, dismissing the   
thought as if it wasn't really important at all. "Well," he finally sighed,   
releasing her and getting up from the bed, "it's getting late, and didn't I hear   
yesterday something about you and Rachel doing something together?"  
  
Cordelia nodded slowly, getting up and searching for her clothes with her hazel   
eyes. "Yeah, I don't want to get lazy on my feet," she looked at him with a   
daring wicked smile, "although I guess you could say I've already exercised   
enough for this morning."  
  
"Don't be bad, Cordy," he told her, sharing her smile and placing a soft kiss on   
her shoulder-blade.  
  
In that very moment, a pounding sound began to shake the door of Xander's   
bedroom and the aforementioned brunette Immortal's voice came with a cheery   
tone. "Come on, Cordy! Eight o'clock, stop doing whatever you and the Xandman   
are doing and let's have a real work-out!"  
  
"She knows us well, you have to admit that," the young vampire laughed as he   
slipped into a pair of black sweatpants as his only concession to modesty,   
remaining barefoot and shirtless.  
  
As she put her lover's crimson velvet shirt back on to cover her nakedness,   
Cordelia stuck her tongue out to him playfully and went to open the door,   
dodging the cushion that Xander threw at her in retaliation for her mocking.   
"Hey! Watch out!"  
  
"Are you naked?" Rachel asked with a bright smile, sticking her head into the   
room through the narrow opening of the door.  
  
"Yep," Xander said, searching for his sneakers and finding only one of them   
thrown into his wastepaper basket, much to his own amusement. "Better luck next   
time, Rach, I know that there's a little voyeur inside you."  
  
The two brunettes snorted practically at the same time. "I think you're   
mistaking me for Spike, he's the one with the awesome adult-video collection."  
  
As Cordelia giggled at the idea, Xander sent a faked severe look towards Rachel,   
menacingly shaking his lonely sneaker at her. "Hey, don't mess with my   
blood-brother, will you? The man is working on his issues, and we have to   
support him on that."  
  
"Yeah," Rachel rolled her brown eyes, leaning her shoulder on the door's frame   
and crossing her arms, "I'll remember you the next time he chooses 'When Harry   
Ate Sally' for a night at home."  
  
"I liked it," he mumbled, kneeling down to search for his lost shoe under the   
mattress of the bed.  
  
Raising an eyebrow, and pretending she hadn't heard that, Cordelia turned around   
to the brunette Immortal. "Well, can you give me a couple of minutes to change   
and we go out?"  
  
"Sure, although I was thinking that we could skip the jogging and do something   
more..." she shrugged slightly, "...mobile."  
  
Xander's head peeked out from the other side of the bed, a wicked smile on his   
lips. "If that means what I think it does, I want you to let me look. After all,   
there's a voyeur within me."  
  
Spotting the lost black sneaker under the bedside table at her side, Cordelia   
retrieved it and quickly threw it at the young vampire, hitting him squarely on   
the top of his head.  
  
"Ouch!" he exclaimed in pain. "That hurts!"  
  
"That's for you not to have naughty ideas, pervert!" the brunette young woman   
exclaimed as the Immortal by her side covered her mouth to hide her giggles.  
  
Turning around to her, Cordelia raised an eyebrow and shook her head with   
resignation, as she crossed her arms over her chest as if saying 'I still have   
to train him better'. "What do you have in mind?"  
  
Rachel just smiled wickedly at her younger friend, almost with perversity.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
As Cordelia ducked down, letting Rachel's extended leg pass barely a couple of   
inches over her head in a perfect flying roundhouse kick, she felt her tight   
spandex bodysuit uncomfortably plastered to her sweaty skin.  
  
She glistened and sweated with the effort of the physical workout, and wondered   
what had exactly had passed through her mind to put her in such a situation.  
  
"Nice move," the brunette Immortal grunted, falling on her feet as the younger   
woman transformed her ducking movement into a forward fall and rolled over her   
shoulder, smoothly turning around and jumping up to face the Immortal again.   
"Let's see if you can keep this level up."  
  
Dressed in a similar way to Cordelia, with skin-tight and sleeveless black   
spandex body-gloves that clung to the voluptuous curves of the two brunettes and   
remaining barefoot, Rachel slashed forward with the heel of her right hand,   
searching for the apparently unguarded chin of the younger woman.  
  
Nevertheless, what happened then made the Immortal brunette remember the first   
thing she had been taught by her French mentor so many years before, when he   
took care of her: have faith in your own capacities, but never underestimate an   
adversary.  
  
Moving with fast and sure precision, Cordelia blocked her blow by raising her   
left hand to push Rachel's upcoming arm away with a slap and then spun around,   
making her long ponytail swing wildly over her shoulder and hitting her with her   
bent right elbow in the ribs.  
  
Grunting in pain and surprise, Rachel jumped backwards to get away from her and   
eluded Cordy's foot when the younger brunette completed her 360 degree spin and   
tried to hit her in the side of her face with a high side-kick.  
  
Although it hurt and she knew that right then there was a red spot forming on   
her skin under the tight body-glove, quickly turning purple before vanishing   
thanks to her Immortal healing capacities, Rachel couldn't help but smile   
inwardly, almost with pride.  
  
At first, when two weeks previously Cordelia had asked her if she could teach   
her some martial-arts moves, she'd had to make an effort not to laugh out loud.  
  
But, seeing how seriously she was taking it and although she hadn't had a pupil   
in more than twenty years (and she'd never had a mortal one), Rachel decided to   
take the young woman under her proverbial wing. And, at least, teach her enough   
self-defense to keep her safe and whole in a place as dangerous as Sunnydale.  
  
It was supposed to be just something to help her feel better and useful. But   
then, she should have remembered that very few things on the Hellmouth were what   
they seemed to be.  
  
Cordelia, for example, was more than the pretty face and a sometimes-snobby   
attitude she had thought the girl was when she first met her. She was much more,   
to the point that Rachel was beginning to think that there was something in   
Xander's girlfriend that was beyond what any of them had thought possible.  
  
Because what she had witnessed in the last few weeks, simply wasn't normal.  
  
To put it simply, she was a natural-born Amazon. She doubted that any of her   
friends, and not even Xander or Cordy herself had noticed it, too accustomed to   
seeing her as the spoiled but brave girl she had once been.  
  
But to her trained eye, she showed all the tell-tale signs. The inner strength,   
the resolve, the valor, the fire burning in her hazel eyes... she had just been   
born to be a warrior.  
  
She liked to joke that all the natural abilities for hand-to-hand combat that   
she seemed to be developing were a debt to her many years as a cheerleader; but   
the Immortal knew better than that. Cordelia was a lot like her, a butterfly   
about to be turned into a wasp, beautiful and lethal at the same time.  
  
That was why she had been able to get in a few days, the knack of movements   
other people would have needed weeks or even months to learn. Why she seemed to   
be a natural with all the weapons Kyle had had the guts to leave in her hands,   
why she never backed off, no matter what they would hit her with...   
  
She was special, in a way that transcended her looks or beauty. And Rachel   
Curran just loved it that she was the port in which Xander had sought refuge,   
because she knew Cordelia had the strength and spirit to keep him safe and   
sound. She just had to ask Cris to do a good 'reading' on the figure of the   
young brunette...   
  
She was so engrossed on her musings, that she almost didn't notice Cordelia   
until the younger woman swept her feet off the ground with a low roundhouse.   
Making Rachel remember rule number two: never space out in the middle of a   
combat situation. There will be enough time for introspection later, if you   
manage to come out of it alive.  
  
But, once again, she hadn't survived all these years without learning one or two   
tricks of her own. Instead of just letting herself hit the floor, Rachel stopped   
her fall leaning her hand on the ground, supporting all her body weight on it.  
  
She kicked Cordelia laterally in her shoulder as she stood up, destabilizing and   
throwing her to the ground with a moan of pain as she elevated her whole body   
and, pushing with her two hands against the mat that covered the floor of the   
training area, flipped up to her feet.  
  
"Come on," she said to her fallen friend as she turned around, "once again."   
  
Getting to her knees and sitting down on her heels, Cordelia blew a loose lock   
of dark hair that had escaped from her ponytail away from her forehead, and   
looked up at her Immortal friend.  
  
"Can't we just take a little break?" she pouted.  
  
"Yes, please," Xander's voice said not far away from them. The two brunette   
women turned their head to see their respective boyfriends seated on the back of   
the larger couch in the rest area, dressed in comfortable slacks and loose   
T-shirts, watching them with half-smiles as they shared the content of a big box   
of popcorn.  
  
"I mean, not that I don't like a good cat-fight now and then, but things are   
beginning to get pretty..." Xander made a show of bringing the collar of his   
T-shirt away from his neck, "hot here. I don't know I'll be able to contain   
myself for much longer."  
  
He looked at Michael with a frown of worry, and shook his head towards the two   
beautiful women. "Do you think I'm sick to be totally aroused by all this?"  
  
"I could give you a lot of reasons to consider you sick, mon ami," Michael said   
with a lewd smile, "but this is not one of them. You should try to be a little   
more... discreet, mes belles, or we won't be held responsible for our actions."  
  
Offering her hand to Cordelia, Rachel helped her to her feet before turning   
around to them and, leaning her hands on her hips, look at the two friends with   
a risen eyebrow. "Do the two of you think yourselves man enough to... put down a   
couple of helpless women like us?"  
  
The two men looked at each other for a brief moment. "I told you we should have   
kept our mouths shut, mon frère," the French Immortal said dryly.  
  
Xander just smiled at him and jumped off the couch, quickly walking to the two   
women. "I'm not in the mood for that kind of... body-to-body action."  
  
"Oh, no?" Cordelia asked him, crossing her arms over her chest and raising a   
cool eyebrow. "What then?"  
  
The corner of Xander's generous mouth rose in wicked half-smile and his left   
eyebrow jumped up perversely as he began to slowly walk towards his girlfriend.  
  
"Oh, no..." she read his intentions and began to walk backwards away from him.   
"Don't you dare... Xander! Xander, no!!"  
  
Before she could get away from him, the young vampire took her into his arms   
and, while she struggled in his grasp, kicking, screaming and finally giggling,   
he flipped her onto his shoulder and began to run.  
  
"Yes!" he shouted, jumping on the back of the couch and then becoming airborne.   
"Fasten your seatbelts, 'cause it's time to fly with Air Xander!!"  
  
"Xander, no!!" she screamed with delight, as they floated into the air and   
wildly spun around like a twister. "You're gonna make me air-sick!"  
  
Laughing out loud, Xander took her off his shoulder and, carrying her in his   
strong arms, began to fly slower, lovingly kissing her on the lips as they   
floated together around the interior of the huge warehouse.  
  
Shaking her head, Rachel couldn't help but smile at seeing them so happy   
together. And, marveled as she was by Xander's challenge to the laws of gravity,   
she never noticed Michael getting closer to her until the French Immortal   
practically whispered in her ear. "It's still difficult to believe,   
n'est-ce-pas?"  
  
She couldn't help but flinch in surprise and looked at him over her shoulder,   
barely managing a nervous smile. "Y-yes, it's..." she shook her head, avoiding   
the intense gaze of his dark blue eyes, "it's very weird."  
  
Frowning slightly and tilting his head to one side, Michael looked at her with   
puzzlement. "There is something bothering you, ma chèrie? There is something you   
want to tell me?"  
  
Immediately, she raised her eyes to him as if a lightning bolt had struck her.   
Damn, he knew her well. Maybe too well for her own good. "It's nothing, I'm just   
a little depressed today, that's all."  
  
That sounded like crap to him, but knowing when to give her space, feeling that   
she had given enough space to him through the years, Michael decided not to push   
the matter too far.  
  
"Très bien," he sighed, taking her hand in his and softly caressing her skin   
with his thumb, "I just want you to know that I'm here for you. For anything you   
want, mon amour."  
  
She looked back at him, and managed a weak smile for his benefit. "I know that."  
  
Smiling, the French Immortal softly enveloped her into his arms, sweetly kissing   
her on the cheek and rocking her slow and comfortably.  
  
"Bombs away!" Cordelia exclaimed when they passed over the couple, letting a   
whole box of popcorn fall on their heads. The box itself fell right on the top   
of Michael's head, ending up a makeshift and slightly-tilted hat. Above them,   
the whole warehouse filled with the laughter of the flying vampire and his mate.  
  
"Look at this!" Rachel said, barely containing her laughter and, taking a flake   
from her boyfriend's shoulder, bringing it to her mouth with a wide smile. "It's   
snowing!"  
  
Michael just looked at her with the only eye that hadn't been covered by the   
box, and a serious expression plastered on his face. "We will have to put some   
fly-paper up in here."  
  
~~~~~~  
  
Oz blinked his blue eyes open and yawned, feeling more tired and brain-fogged   
than what was usual, and took a short look around himself. The cage, the rough   
wood under his naked body and, beyond the wire-trimmed fence, the backroom of   
Giles' bookstore.  
  
=Just another day in the wonderful world of werewolfism,= he thought with dry   
sarcasm.  
  
=But this morning's different,= he also thought as he yawned again and grimaced   
at the taste of his own mouth, wondering what the hell had died inside it last   
night. There was something that wasn't right, there was something missing from   
this picture.  
  
"Willow?" he called out loud, as he got up from the floor and shook the closed   
door, finding that he was still locked up. "Where are you?"  
  
As he got closer to the fence, almost leaning his face against it and increasing   
his range of vision, he was finally able to locate his red-haired girlfriend.   
She was seated on the furthest part of the couch with her feet up on it, her   
chin leaned on her bent knees and her sea-green eyes seemingly lost into the   
void.  
  
There was an aura of sadness so thick around her, that the young musician felt   
his heart breaking only at the mere sight of her.  
  
What could have happened to put that look of sadness in the eyes of his   
beautiful Willow? Had he done something during the night? Had the beast inside   
him managed to hurt her or someone else somehow?  
  
Although his ever-calm façade didn't show it, Oz felt something cold inside his   
belly, a bubbling sensation of nervousness aggravated by Willow's apparent lack   
of response.  
  
"Willow?" he called her again. "Willow?"  
  
Finally, the red-haired young woman seemed to come out of her reverie and shook   
her head, looking at Oz's naked form leaned against the fence as if it was the   
first time she heard his deep voice.  
  
"Oz?" she said his name with a weak, almost pained voice.  
  
"Hey, baby," he managed a smile only for her benefit. "Could you let me outta   
here? It's beginning to get cold."  
  
Shaking her head again as if she was coming out of sleep right then, Willow   
finally nodded and slowly got up from the couch, retrieving the keys of the cage   
from the surface of the nearby table and walking to open the door's lock.  
  
With his slender fingers still grasping the wire-trimmed fence, Oz followed with   
his cold blue eyes each one of Willow's movements as she got closer to him. She   
fought with the small collection of keys on the large key-ring, fumbling with   
them until she was able to find the correct one and insert it into the lock.  
  
Much to his own surprise and worry, the young musician found that she wasn't   
able to look straight at him or talk to him at any given moment. When she   
finally unlocked the door, but before she was able to open it, Oz strained his   
fingers through the fence to caress her ones where she had leaned them to open   
the door.  
  
As if she had received an electric shock, Willow flinched and raised her   
sea-green eyes to his. She seemed about to cry.  
  
"Wills," he practically whispered, his lips only separated from hers by the   
metallic fence and a few inches of air. To him, it seemed like being a whole   
world apart. "Are you alright? Is there something going on?"  
  
"I-I..." she sobbed, shaking her head. Breaking away from him, removing her hand   
from his with a movement that was a final caress, Willow backpedaled to the   
couch, hiding her face between her hands as she finally broke into tears.  
  
Stifling a curse, Oz pushed the door violently open and, forgetting completely   
about his current state of nakedness, quickly closed the space that separated   
him from his loved one, enveloping the petite woman in his arms.  
  
"No!" the redhead cried when she felt the arms of the werewolf around her,   
struggling to free herself. "Don't touch me!"  
  
"But baby," he shook his head in confusion, "you gotta tell me what's going on,   
is it something I've done? Did I..." he took her face gently into his hands and   
made her look straight at him, "...did I do something last night?"  
  
She shook her head weakly and leaned her warm hand on his cheek, caressing him   
sadly. "You? No, sweetheart... it was me who did something horrible last night."  
  
Frowning, Oz blinked his eyes with puzzlement. When she tried again to come out   
of his embrace, he let her go and reached out for the blanket on the back of the   
couch, using it cover his naked body and get some resemblance of dignity.  
  
"What are you talking about?" he asked, looking at her warily as he slowly sat   
down on the old green couch.  
  
Taking a step back from him as if his mere closeness hurt her, the young   
apprentice witch leaned back on the near table, crossing her arms over her chest   
almost defensively.  
  
"I... I... uh, something happened last night," she told him, fighting with the   
words. "It, it... well, it was nothing, I mean, it was something, but to me,   
I..."  
  
"Willow?" he called her, cutting off her seemingly endless tirade. She raised   
her eyes from the floor, to look at him in silence. "You're babbling."  
  
"I almost kissed Spike last night," she finally blurted out, with an   
expressionless face and dead eyes.  
  
They say that confession is good for the soul, but at that very moment, in the   
midst of the thick and sticky silence that fell between her and the young man   
she knew she loved with all her heart, Willow Rosenberg didn't feel good, not at   
all.  
  
All night she had been endlessly turning the whole matter back and forth inside   
her mind, until she had believed she was going to go crazy and her head had   
seemed about to explode.  
  
But the truth was, she couldn't say that her thoughts were any clearer than what   
they had been the moment Spike had crossed the door of the store.  
  
What she knew was that, although she seemed to have some kind of feelings   
towards the bleached-hair vampire she couldn't even measure or define, she still   
loved Oz with all her heart and soul and that, at least, she owed him the   
sincerity of the truth.  
  
But now, as she perceived something changing inside the young werewolf she began   
to think that, maybe, discretion would had been the wisest decision.  
  
There wasn't anything really showy, Oz's usual calm and self-controlled façade   
didn't change one bit, neither did the rhythm of his breathing or even the cool   
fire that always seemed to blaze in his eyes.  
  
But she, who was beginning to learn the real ways of magic and to see the world   
as it really was, didn't need much effort to notice the variations in his aura.   
Where everything was usually the soft pastel tones of an artist, bordered with   
some touches of the indigo blue of a magical creature and the dark grays of his   
inner wolf, now it all shone darker, swirling with rage like in a maelstrom,   
giving color to his inner turmoil.  
  
On the outside, Oz just took a long and deep breath and got up from the couch,   
precariously grasping the blanket around his waist as he walked to the near   
chair where all his clothes were still neatly folded.  
  
"Aren't you going to say anything?" she weakly asked, as she watched him   
slipping into his underwear and faded blue jeans.  
  
"What do you want me to say?" Oz said, without turning around to look at her.  
  
Willow shrugged helplessly. "I don't know... that you forgive me, that you still   
love me... that you can't even look at me in the face, that you hate me...   
something... anything, I guess."  
  
Oz sighed again and, still without turning around to look straight at her, let   
his head sink down tiredly and leaned his hands on his waist. "Willow, right   
now, I just don't think there's much I want to say to you."  
  
That was the moment when she saw it all clearly, and she had to wonder how it   
was that she had been so stupid that she hadn't been able to understand it   
sooner. No matter what she could feel for Spike, no matter how strong her   
attraction for the dark and handsome vampire could be, it just paled in   
comparison with her feelings towards Oz.  
  
Because, if the high-pitched cry that escaped from her lips at hearing the   
freezing cold in the young werewolf's voice wasn't the sound her heart breaking   
inside her chest, Willow couldn't conceive what it was.  
  
"Oz, please," she begged to him, "don't get angry with me."  
  
"Angry?" he practically growled, wildly turning around and clenching his fists   
around the thin T-shirt he held into his hands to control their shaking. "You   
tell me that you've kissed another man, and then ask me not to get angry?"  
  
"Almost kissed," she pointed out, barely recognizing the face of her boyfriend   
under the sudden grimace of rage that crossed over his features for an almost   
imperceptible moment. "There's a difference."  
  
"Oh, really?" he asked with an unusual acid-dripping sarcasm, throwing the   
T-shirt over his bare chest and sitting down on the chair to put on his socks   
and sneakers. "Like what? An inch of air?"  
  
"No," she said firmly, now resolved not to make him believe it had been what it   
wasn't. "The difference is that I understood my mistake soon enough not to do   
some irreparable damage to our relationship. I backed off, Oz, I didn't do it."  
  
The young red-haired man slipped his feet into his white and tattered sneakers   
and looked up at Willow, the intensity of his feelings only showing now in the   
furious way in which he was tying his shoe-laces. "You just don't get it, don't   
you?"  
  
"What?" she asked with a frown.  
  
Getting up from the chair, Oz began to walk to the exit of the room as he shook   
his head. Once more, like the night before, she felt herself glued to the floor,   
unable to follow and stop him the same way she hadn't been able to stop Spike.   
"Oz, please, talk to me!"  
  
Almost as if she watching the same movie with just the actors changed, Oz   
stopped under the door's frame and turned around to look at her one last time   
before walking out.  
  
"I love you, Willow," he said simply, shaking his head sadly, "and nothing's   
gonna change that, but right now..."  
  
He sighed deeply and closed his eyes tightly shut, as if his head, or his heart,   
was aching. "...right now I just need to be alone for a while, OK?" he said.   
"I'll talk to you later."  
  
"When?" she asked weakly, her eyes burning with the sting of tears.  
  
Oz shook his head. "I don't know, Willow. I just don't know."  
  
And, leaving her alone, cold and empty, the young werewolf finally walked out of   
the room, turning his back on her so she couldn't see the silent tears of sorrow   
and rage coming out from his blue eyes and rolling down his cheeks.  
  
The only thing both of them knew at that moment was that, no matter what, things   
would never be the same between them again.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
To be continued... 


	8. Part 8 of 8

DR2 - The Cross of Changes by Nick Midian, Book II, part 8 of 8   
  
Written by Nick Midian   
  
Content beta-reading and storyline suggestions by Duncan  
English grammar, spelling, slang, Highlander continuity and general corrections   
by Theo  
French slang, content beta-reading and storyline suggestions by Mash  
French slang by Alan  
  
  
EMAIL: jcaballero@euskalnet.net  
  
WEBSITE: http://www.angelfire.com/tv2/thedarkages  
  
SPOILERS: For Buffy the Vampire Slayer: 3rd season, BUT no Xander/Willow kissing   
and no Lover's Walk (welcome to the wonderful State of Denial, Land of   
'Shippiness). Hmmm, I've messed with the third season's timeline to accommodate   
it to my necessities. Let's just say that 'Band Candy' happened a lot later than   
it did, around the first days of February, OK?  
For Highlander: None really, the characters of the TV series and films are only   
tangentially mentioned. You just need to know the basics of Highlander-style   
immortality, BUT I've always thought that whole 'Immortals have no parents and   
are found in a little basket' is a... um, the Spanish word for it is 'chorrada',   
so let's just ignore it, OK?  
KEYWORDS: Romance, Angst, Action-adventure, Violence, Alternate Universe,   
Crossover.  
RATING: PG-13 with some mild R parts for violence and sexual innuendo.  
DISCLAIMER: This story has been written with no intention of profit, merely for   
the pleasure of writing and sharing it.  
The concept and characters of BTVS (Buffy, Angel, Cordelia, Xander, Willow, Oz,   
Giles, Joyce, Spike, Drusilla, Snyder, Faith, Harmony, Lyle Gorch, Quentin   
Travers and the rest) are intellectual and legal property of Joss Whedon, Warner   
Brothers, Mutant Enemy, etc. Also, the concept of Highlander and the characters   
mentioned here (Duncan MacLeod, Amanda Darieux, Richie Ryan, Joe Dawson and the   
Society of Watchers) are the property of Panzer-Davis and Rysher Entertainment.  
Michael Deveraux, Rachel Curran, Crystal Parker, Kyle White Owl, Robert   
Coltrane, Elvis the Dog, Broderick Egoyan, Damon Frost, Mr. Smith, the World   
Committee for Civil Defense and the rest are my own creation.  
All the songs and lyrics here are used without permission, they are copyright of   
their respective rights owners.  
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Please, understand that English is not my native language, so   
any grammatical or spelling errors are my fault, not of any one of my wonderful   
beta-readers. If you're thinking of sending any flames, please be kind with me.   
I'm a grown man, but I still can cry like a child, believe me.  
Additional Author's Note: The songs performed by Oz's band are 'Loli Jackson'   
and 'Serenade' by Dover. It appears courtesy of Subterfuge records. All rights   
reserved, yadda, yadda, yadda...   
SUMMARY: After the events in 'Dark Reflection' a new threat menaces both the   
Slayerettes and the Archangels as new and old enemies come to Sunnydale, merging   
past and present. This time, it's something personal - ta-da-da-dam!!! (sorry,   
but I just had to say that)  
  
And now, on with the show. Fasten your seat belts ladies and gentlemen, because   
it's going to be a long, hard and jumpy ride...   
  
~~~~~~  
  
The cast for Book II  
  
  
Nicholas Brendon as Xander Harris  
Charisma Carpenter as Cordelia Chase  
  
Sarah Michelle Gellar as Buffy Summers  
David Boreanaz as Angel  
Alyson Hannigan as Willow Rosenberg  
Seth Green as Daniel 'Oz' Osborne  
Anthony Stewart Head as Rupert Giles  
Kristine Sutherland as Joyce Summers  
  
Matthew Perry as Michael Deveraux  
Paula Trickey as Rachel Curran  
James Marsters as Spike  
Nikki Cox as Crystal Parker  
David James Elliott as Kyle White Owl  
Elvis the Dog as Himself  
  
Eliza Dushku as Faith Adams  
Donald Sutherland as The Old Chess Player, Broderick Egoyan  
Sebastian Spence as Damon Frost  
Avery Brooks as Mr. Smith  
  
Mercedes MacNab as Harmony Kendall  
Armin Shimerman as Principal Snyder  
Amy Chance as Aphrodesia  
Persia White as Aura  
  
Alan Rickman as Conrad Swann  
Wesley Snipes as Talon Pantera  
Dennis Rodman as Rush Pantera  
Tom Berenger as Colonel Cabbot Ashe  
Michael Ironside as the Sergeant  
Trevor Goddard as Backlash  
Shaquille O'Neal as Beast  
Jet Li as Bushido  
  
with  
  
Kevin Spacey as Robert Coltrane  
Nicholas Lea as Jonah Whalls  
and  
Catherine Zeta-Jones as the Lady in Red  
  
~~~~~~  
  
If the bulky engine floating in the middle of the air, enveloped in a blue glow,   
looked like something strange to the two persons inside the garage of the   
Archangels' warehouse, neither of them showed any sign to indicate that.  
  
Far from it; Crystal, who was responsible for the levitation spell, guided the   
engine using the point of her index finger as if it was a baton, looked bored no   
end.  
  
And, when Kyle made an indication towards her to lower the engine on the naked   
chassis of Cordelia's VW Beetle as if he was helping her to park a car, the   
red-haired witch couldn't help but grunt at him in annoyance.  
  
"Come on, come on," he said, his bright blue eyes fixed on the floating engine   
and a strange smile on his lips, "just a little more to the right... a little   
more... not so much!"  
  
Cris looked at him, through half-closed eyes. "Don't they make some kind of tool   
for this sort of thing?" she asked him, feeling her patience reaching its   
limits.  
  
"Sure," he answered with a twisted smile, "but it still turns me on to see you   
doing this."  
  
Just raising a cool red eyebrow, the witch made a sharp gesture with her finger   
and the engine fell freely the last couple of inches with a suddenness and a   
sound of clashing metal that made the tall Texan jump in surprise. "Hey! Watch   
out!"  
  
"I should have let it fall on one of your feet," she told him, with a faked   
sweet smile. "That would have taught you a lesson."  
  
"Come on, Cris," he practically whispered to her with one of his patented   
1000-watt smiles. "You know you can't teach an old dog new tricks."  
  
"You consider yourself old?" she asked him as the Texan rolled up the sleeves of   
his faded and dirty jumpsuit, uncovering the two wide leather wrist-bands he   
always seemed to wear, and knelt down by the engine, beginning to adjust it to   
the different systems of the car.  
  
"I guess so," he said, shrugging and not raising his eyes to look at her. "I'm   
32 years old, after all."  
  
She arched her brow, crossing her arms over her chest and getting close enough   
to him to make Kyle feel her presence without risking getting her gauzy white   
robes dirty with the grease of the dismounted car. "And I'm sixty-one. What's   
your point?"  
  
Kyle stopped his work for a brief moment, long enough to give her a look over   
his shoulder before resuming his labor. "Don't even try to compare our   
situations, Cris. You don't look a day over twenty."  
  
"Well," she smiled widely, a strange happening for her, "that's because I try to   
carry on with a healthy life, and you should do the same."  
  
He snorted, shaking his head and then grimacing with effort when he tried to   
screw two joints together with his bare hands, an action that was benumbed by   
the fact that they were slippery with oil and grease.  
  
Shaking her head and smiling with amusement, Cris finally forgot about her   
clothes and knelt down beside him.  
  
"Here," she told him with a smile, "let me help you."  
  
Arching his brow in wonder, Kyle let her take one of the tubes and hold it as he   
screwed the joints at the end tightly together.  
  
"You know," she finally said in a intimate tone, without looking straight at   
him, "I often think that the only reason I stay young is because I still haven't   
found someone to grow old with."  
  
His head turned around to look at her so fast, that Kyle thought he had heard   
some of the bones in his neck breaking with the effort and he was definitely   
sure that his eyes were about to pop out of their sockets.  
  
But, he didn't find inside himself the strength enough to do anything more than   
to let his greasy hands slide over hers. She didn't seem to mind his touch at   
all and, when she smiled again at him, he decided that it was a good place to   
leave them; at least for a while.  
  
"And, um, do you have any idea of what Mr. Right looks like?" he asked trying to   
sound nonchalant, but feeling that the trembling of his voice was betraying his   
lame attempt at coolness.  
  
She shrugged. "No, but I'm open to any kind of suggestion."  
  
"Suggestions, huh?" he nodded slowly. "I'll have to keep that in mind."  
  
Almost at the edge of his consciousness, the tall Texan felt his mouth beginning   
a slow and doubtful travel towards hers and, much to his own surprise and   
wonder, he didn't feel her trying to back off or stop him.  
  
Far from it, he thought he noticed a little spark in her deep jade-green eyes.   
He just wished it was the same excitement he was feeling right then.  
  
But, much to the dismay of both of them, the hydraulic hissing sound of the   
armored iris that closed the entrance by the sewers opening interrupted them   
when there was still a whole world between their faces.  
  
It made them jump apart, as if they had been a couple of kids getting caught   
while playing doctor.  
  
Looking at the sudden black hole in the middle of the floor with amazed wide   
eyes, the witch and the Texan disentangled their linked hands, feeling suddenly   
guilty without really knowing why.  
  
They did so, only to see Spike come out of the hole, taking a hold on the edge   
of it to push himself up and then standing on his feet a little unsteadily.  
  
"Hey," he simply acknowledged Crystal's presence, before fixing his cold blue   
eyes on the tall Texan's figure. "Cowboy."  
  
"Look, it's the prodigal vampire," he smiled widely, before blinking in   
confusion as he stood up to his feet and grabbed a dirty rug to wipe his dirty   
hands clean. "Hey, where's your car?"  
  
The bleached-hair vampire smiled sideways and walked closer to Kyle on unsure   
feet. "Me car?" he slurred with difficulty. "I'll tell you where's me car,   
mate."  
  
Spike brought his right fist back, and swung a wild punch at him that Kyle   
eluded with little effort. Nevertheless, the momentum of the failed swing made   
the bleached-hair vampire stagger on his feet and he practically fell into the   
tall Texan's arms.  
  
Kyle couldn't help but grimace at noticing how much he reeked of Jack Daniel's,   
to the point it seemed that Spike had taken a bath in it, instead of drinking   
it.  
  
"Hey!" he exclaimed, holding him so he wouldn't fall to the floor, "what do you   
think you're-"  
  
His question was cut short when Spike brought his fist back again and, this   
time, punched him squarely in the gut, making Kyle double over and grunt in   
pain.  
  
Reacting merely on instinct, Kyle returned the blow, punching him in the stomach   
and then with and uppercut to his chin that made the bleached-hair vampire   
backpedal and almost fall down to the dirty floor.  
  
Shaking his head, Spike felt the unmistakable metallic taste of blood inside his   
mouth and stuck his tongue out to test the wound where Kyle's Quantico Naval   
Academy ring had broken his lower lip.  
  
"Oooh," he growled, "now you've finally done it, Cowboy."  
  
"Come on, buddy," the raven-haired man said, raising his fists to a defensive   
boxing posture, "let's see what you've got."  
  
With a new growl, Spike charged forward like an enraged bull and Kyle brought   
his right fist back to receive him with a welcoming hard strike to his face;   
but, before there was real contact, Crystal did two things.  
  
The first one was to generate a thin energy field between the two opponents.   
Nothing really dangerous, just an electric field thin as a hair that, when they   
touched it, produced an explosion of golden sparks. It made both Kyle and Spike   
jump back, repelled by the energy and painfully land on the floor right on their   
butts.  
  
The second one was to launch a telepathic shout of alert; nothing defined as she   
was only able to fully communicate that way with another witch, just a sensation   
of danger that would warn whoever was close enough to hear her.  
  
"Stop it, the two of you, right now!" she shouted, when she saw the   
bleached-hair vampire and the tall Texan beginning to stand up to their feet.   
"What the hell do you think you're doing?"  
  
"Hey!" Kyle protested with a frown. "He hit me first!"  
  
"And the only thing that you can think to do is hit him back?" she turned around   
to look at Spike, who didn't looked too aware of himself and whose face was   
beginning to have a very unhealthy green tone. "And you? You... you're... you're   
drunk! What's up with you? Kyle's supposed to be your friend!"  
  
"That's a nice-" Kyle began, before shutting his mouth at the furious glare that   
the red-haired witch directed at him.  
  
Ignoring him, Spike staggered back until his back collided against one of the   
pillars that supported the whole structure of the warehouse. Then he leaned his   
hands on his slightly bent knees, taking long and cleansing breaths through his   
nose to control the sudden urge to vomit that engulfed his body.  
  
Spitting out a mix of saliva and blood from his mouth, he shook his head weakly.   
"We're not friends," he said, more to himself than to them. "I'm just..." he   
shook his head again, laughing almost maniacally, "...a pet with fangs."  
  
Kyle and Cris looked at each other, not knowing what to make of that. "What   
the..." Kyle began, before he was interrupted by the rumble of the upcoming   
elevator.  
  
"...hell is going on!?" Xander's voice completed for him. The foursome stepped   
out of the dark interior of the elevator, the three Immortals with their swords   
up and ready as they covered the young brunette woman behind them almost without   
thinking on what they were doing.  
  
At seeing that there was nobody other than the three members of their group in   
the garage, Xander frowned and lowered the dark blade of his katana, slow and   
carefully sheathing it in its scabbard as he walked closer to them.  
  
Elvis came out trotting behind them and padded closer to Spike, taking a sniff   
at him from a distance of security and then sneezing with a growl.  
  
The vampire looked at the big German shepherd with hostility and the dog whined,   
trotting to Cris' side and them sitting down on his rear legs with an expression   
of disgust on his furry face. The red-haired witch silently petted him between   
the ears, making him whine in delight.  
  
"Can someone tell me what's going on?" Xander asked warily, looking at them one   
by one. "And Cris, please, next time try to lower the volume of your telepathic   
screams. You've given all of us a major headache."  
  
"Yeah," Cordelia agreed, hiding behind her back the small gun that nobody seemed   
to have noticed in her hands, "I almost fell to the floor."  
  
"These two got into a fight," the red-haired witch said, shaking her finger at   
them in a motherly way, "just like two high school bullies."  
  
"He hit me first," the Texan insisted once more, childishly pouting and   
scratching the back of his head.  
  
Xander sighed and shook his head tiredly, gave a questioning look to Rachel and   
Michael, who silently looked at each other before shrugging helplessly. He then   
finally turned to face Spike, who was still leaning on his knees and with his   
blue eyes lost on the dirty floor of the garage.  
  
"Cor, baby," he told his girlfriend, offering his sheathed sword to her, "could   
you put this in my room, please? And the rest of you, why don't you go upstairs   
and do..." he shrugged, "I dunno, do whatever it is you do at this time of day."  
  
"Sure," Cordelia said, accepting the katana. "I'll grab a shower and change, I   
have classes in an hour."  
  
Nodding, Xander kissed her tenderly on the lips and the young brunette woman   
walked back to the elevator after throwing a last worried look to the   
bleached-hair vampire, accompanied by Michael, Rachel, Crystal and Elvis.  
  
"Do you need any help, frère?" the French Immortal asked him in a whisper when   
he passed by the young vampire.  
  
"No," Xander whispered back to him, "but Kyle, I would like you to stay here."  
  
The tall Texan opened his mouth to protest, but his action was cut dead by   
Xander's severe look and he closed his lips tightly shut, rolling his bright   
blue eyes.  
  
Once the rest of their friends had finally gone away, Xander knelt down beside   
his blood-brother so he could look straight at his eyes and tilted his head   
slightly to one side.  
  
Not for the first time, Spike looked into his young friend's eyes and felt   
something there – something unnatural, something that was beyond anything he had   
ever known in his unnaturally long existence.  
  
And, not for the first time, he wondered if Xander Harris was really from this   
world. The intensity, the warmth, the affection in his dark but gentle brown   
eyes was so overwhelming that the bleached-hair vampire felt himself almost   
drowning in them.  
  
Xander had something – he had known that since the very first days of their   
strange friendship. It was the way in which he could bore right into him and see   
what was already there, in which he could cut through the layers of his being   
and read directly from his soul, if he still had something inside him that   
resembled that.  
  
He wasn't sure if he did. And Spike wasn't sure if he really wanted to have it.  
  
Finally breaking the lock of their stares, Xander took out a half-consumed pack   
of cigarettes and offered one to him, bringing another one to his lips after   
Spike had accepted it and the lighting them with his golden Zippo.  
  
"Does Cordy know you're smokin' again?" Spike asked, with a half-smile.  
  
"What Cordy doesn't know can't hurt her," Xander said simply, with an   
accomplished smile. "Do you wanna tell me what happened?"  
  
Spike simply shrugged, avoiding the look of his eyes. "Why don't ya ask the   
Cowboy over there?"  
  
Without uttering a word, Xander turned his head around to look at the tall   
Texan. "Care to fill in the gaps, Kyle?"  
  
Crossing his arms over his broad chest, Kyle rolled his eyes. "I don't know what   
you're talking about."  
  
The bleached-hair vampire snorted gruffly, and stabbed him with his blood-shot   
eyes. "My car. La cucaracha. Ring any bloody bells?"  
  
The tall Texan looked away, and Xander turned his head to look at him seriously.   
"Kyle?"  
  
"Well, um, I..." he mumbled a little guiltily, "I may have put some... hydraulic   
devices in his car, and a couple of neon lights..."   
  
At Xander's annoyed look, he shrugged helplessly. "Come on, Xand, it was just a   
joke, nothing worse that what we've done to each other a hundred times before. I   
didn't even activate it, it must've been a short-circuit or something..."  
  
Xander closed his eyes, and shook his head tiredly. "Kyle, I thought we had   
reached an agreement, no more practical jokes. You promised."  
  
The tall Texan rolled his eyes. "Well, I also promised not to steal Michael's   
Cuban cigars and his reserve of Remy Martin again..."  
  
The two vampires raised their eyes to him and Kyle chuckled nervously, crossing   
his arms over his chest. "And... I've never done it again, I swear."  
  
Shaking his head and raising his hand in an 'I-just-don't-want-to-know-it'   
gesture, Xander turned around to look back at Spike. "Don't tell me this is all   
because you didn't like a joke from the guys, Spike. What's going on?"  
  
The bleached-hair vampire sent a silent look towards Kyle, and Xander signaled   
to him to now leave them alone.  
  
"OK, OK, I know when I'm not needed," Kyle sighed, patting his stomach. "You   
have a good night, Blondie."  
  
Xander waited till the Texan was out of sight to speak to his blood-brother and   
crushed the butt of his cigarette on the floor, letting a cloud of blue-gray   
smoke escape from his lungs through his nose. "OK, spit it out."  
  
Letting his back slide down the pillar, Spike sat down on the floor, surrounding   
his bent knees with his arms, and looked straight at his younger friend with   
tired, almost worn-out, eyes.  
  
"Have you ever felt that your life 'as no bloody point to it, that anythin' ya   
do has no real purpose, that... you're not really in control of yer own   
actions?" he asked.  
  
Xander arched his brow, and let a soft smile cross his generous lips. "Yeah, for   
a long time in my life. It was called adolescence, if I remember it correctly.   
But I thought that you passed that stage long ago, like over a century or so."  
  
Spike chuckled good-naturedly and, for the first time that day, the dark-haired   
vampire saw in his eyes that spark of unconformity and almost malice that was so   
his and smiled along with him. "Well, ya know me, always been a little immature   
for me own good."  
  
The younger vampire shrugged. "Nobody said that was a bad thing. Now, tell me,   
what's happened that's put you in such an introspective mood? It's not like you   
at all."  
  
The bleached-hair vamp observed him from under his dark eyebrows, and finally   
shook his head. "It doesn't matter, it's personal, but it's made me think," he   
gave a warning look at him, "and I don't wanna hear any comment about that. Do   
ya think I've turned into a joke?"  
  
This time, it was Xander's time to frown. "What do you mean?"  
  
"A joke," he shrugged, "a parody of meself. I dunno, I look back, I remember   
myself as the big bad Master vampire that was feared all throughout Europe. And   
I can't help but think that bein' the target of a redneck's joke, is definitely   
a step down from that."  
  
"You really think so?" Xander inquired gently, knowing that they were headed   
into really troubled waters. The bleached-hair vampire passed a tired hand   
through his peroxide-blonde hair, and shook his head.  
  
"Once, a long time ago, we had a conversation very similar to this one, William.   
And that time you told me that one of the things you missed the most, the thing   
that Dru had taken with her when she abandoned you, was the respect. Your   
self-respect, and the one that others felt for you. Do you remember what I told   
you then?"  
  
Spike nodded, not able to hide the smile that came to his face at the   
remembrance of that particular moment in his life. Of that tiny room in Seattle,   
of the warm bed, the bedside table and the window without bars facing the bay.  
  
Of the long hours spent there, talking, laughing, learning to live again,   
rediscovering himself away from the boundaries of Angelus, Drusilla and all the   
relationships that he had thought defined himself without hope of recovery or   
salvation.  
  
Then, a young and lost boy, with soulful brown eyes and a power he wasn't   
completely able to control, had taught him a lesson he hadn't forgotten. There   
was still hope for him, there was still the possibility that there would be   
space for the man beyond the demon.  
  
But now he wasn't so sure of that. Now, he was beginning to think that it had   
all been an illusion, that it had been just another notch on the list of jokes   
his unlife was turning out to be.  
  
But he had told him that. Xander had told him that.  
  
"Yeah," he admitted, "that it hadn't been respect, that it had been fear and   
that I shouldn't mistake one thing for the other."  
  
"Exactly," Xander almost whispered to him, "and there's only one thing that's   
changed since then."  
  
The younger vampire waited for his friend to raise his eyes and look straight at   
him, before continuing. "I respect you, Spike. You're my friend and my   
blood-brother, you've saved my life more than once and I've done the same for   
you."  
  
Silently, Xander offered his hand to him. "I won't let you fall."   
  
Looking at the offered hand almost as if it was enchanted, once again thinking   
back to the past, Spike finally reached out and took it in his own, holding onto   
it as if it was his lifesaver.  
  
"I won't let you fall," he repeated, looking into his dark brown eyes and,   
finally, sharing Xander's warm smile.  
  
=How strange is this bloody world,= Spike thought, as a myriad of feelings,   
sensations and faces crossed his mind with perfect clarity. The faces of those   
he had killed, of those he had loved, of those he had considered friends or   
enemies.  
  
The faces of those who, by definition, had mattered to him.  
  
How strange it was, indeed.  
  
"Oh, no," the older vampire growled, closed his eyes tightly shut.  
  
"What?" Xander asked with a frown.  
  
Spike shook his head, an amused smile on his thin lips. "I've just let the   
Cowboy hit me twice. Mate, I'm definitely gettin' old!"  
  
Xander laughed out loud, a dry and amused bark that was soon joined by his   
friend's deeper but also clean laughter.  
  
He was about to begin crying when the 'buzz' rocked his stomach unpleasantly,   
and he became suddenly silent and cold. Spike noticed immediately the change in   
the younger man's expression and quickly jumped to his feet, yanking at Xander's   
hand, which was still in his, and dragging him up.  
  
"Hey!" Xander protested. "You're going to rip my arm off, buddy. Don't worry,"   
he calmed the bleached-hair vampire, "it's just..."  
  
At that very moment, the sewer entrance opened with a hiss and Buffy stuck her   
blonde head out of the hole in the floor, an annoyed expression on her otherwise   
beautiful face.  
  
"The Slayer," Spike growled, watching how she crawled out of the hole and stood   
up, patting the dirt and the dust from her black pants, "and that means that the   
poofy bastard ain't far away too."  
  
As if on cue, Angel came out, following his girlfriend and sending an strange   
look towards his two blood-brothers.  
  
"You know?" he asked with a growl. "Either you get my parameters on that bloody   
computer or you change the password, because I'm not going to do that damn dance   
ever again."  
  
Looking at Spike sideways and exchanging an amused smile with him, Xander got   
closer to his friends and reached out with his hand to help the Irish-born   
vampire to get completely out of the sewer.  
  
"Oh, come on, Angie, you look so cute doing it. I bet Buffy is agreement with me   
on that, aren't you, Buffs?" he asked.  
  
The Slayer just looked at him in silence and, for the first time, Xander noticed   
the thick manila file she was carrying under her arm and the severe and nervous   
look in her face.  
  
"Something wrong, Buffy?" he asked her gently, half-closing his eyes.  
  
Buffy shifted uncomfortably on her feet, looking away from his tall and dark   
figure. "I, uh, I would like to have a word with you," he said, giving Spike a   
wary look, "in private if that's possible."  
  
Raising a questioning eyebrow, Xander nodded slowly. "Sure, no problem," he   
said, showing her the way to the elevator with his hand. "Let's go to my   
office."  
  
Nodding slowly and holding the file tightly against her chest, Buffy got into   
the elevator and waited for the rest to join her, never daring to look straight   
at Xander's eyes.   
  
Worried, the younger man looked at Angel questioningly and in silence, but the   
souled vampire limited himself to a shrug and follow the blonde Slayer, hiding   
his hands into the pockets of his coat.  
  
Frowning with puzzlement, Xander and Spike exchanged one last look and, seeing   
that they couldn't do anything else, got into the lift behind them.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
Sitting down on the floor, right beside the fireplace, Faith shook her head in   
wonder and couldn't help but smile sweetly at her interlocutor.  
  
"Immortals," she whispered almost to herself, tasting the texture of the word on   
her lips as if it had gained a new meaning to her. "Who would've thought it   
possible?"  
  
Egoyan had said the truth when he had spoken of fairy tales; the words, now   
deeply carved into her mind, had mystical shades to her. The Quickening. The   
Game. The Prize. Unbelievable. Precious. Unique. Like her Xander.  
  
Broderick Egoyan shared her smile and rolled closer to the seated vampiress,   
looking at her carefully. "Now you know why your dear Xander is so special. Is   
there something you want to ask?"  
  
"How many of them are there around?" she wondered without looking at him, still   
turning the new concept over inside her head. Xander, Immortal and vampire at   
the same time. =Wow, absolutely incredible.=  
  
"Between five and ten thousand. It's difficult to calculate their number   
exactly, because many of them try to pass unnoticed, and they never really spend   
much time in any one place."  
  
"That's a lot of them," she mumbled, biting her lower lip thoughtfully.  
  
The old man shrugged weakly. "Not if you consider that there are more than six   
billion men and women walking the Earth, among which they can hide. Compared to   
the rest of us, they're like a drop in the ocean."  
  
"And why is it they don't get together and..." she arched her brow and shrugged   
helplessly, "I don't know, conquer the world or something?"  
  
"Why don't vampires do the same thing?" he asked her in retaliation.  
  
Faith just sighed. "I still haven't found another vampire I like enough to spend   
the rest of the eternity with, ruling the world or otherwise."  
  
"There, then, you have your answer. Half the time they're too busy trying to   
kill each other, to even think about that." Egoyan chuckled softly.  
  
After a few seconds to control the cough into which his laughter had turned   
into, he sighed deeply and made a silent sign towards Mr. Smith who, as usual,   
was waiting for his cue near them in the shadows.  
  
The tall black man walked to him, and left a little square package on his lap.   
"How are the rest of the preparations going?" the old man asked him in a low   
tone.  
  
"Mr. Frost has already gone out to fulfill his mission," he told Egoyan   
efficiently. "Colonel Ashe's group has its instructions and I've recommended to   
him to choose some of his best men to accompany Mr. Swann on his quest. Also,   
the Pantera brothers are in charge of covering them in case there's any   
problem."  
  
"Very well then, we're moving along nicely. Anyway, I'd like you to accompany   
the main group, just be sure that everything is taken care of in the correct   
way," the crippled man said with a twisted smile, making a new dismissive   
gesture towards him.  
  
He then centered his attention back on the former Slayer, when the tall black   
man nodded and retreated back into the shadows. "I have a present for you, my   
dear."  
  
"Really?" she asked, smiling and raising her brow in childish wonder. "Have you   
bought me something pretty?" Taking the package, a narrow box about twenty-five   
centimeters long, Faith shook it by her ear.  
  
Something heavy made a loud sound inside it, and the former Slayer almost   
squeaked in pleasant delight.  
  
"I guess I'm like an old uncle," Egoyan told her with a sour smile, "I prefer to   
give you something useful."  
  
Arching her dark brow, and practically jumping on the spot with impatience,   
Faith opened the small box, uncovering what was guarded inside it. When she   
finally saw it, the former Slayer frowned with puzzlement.  
  
"What's this?" she asked, turning the box around so the old man could see its   
content.  
  
It was a knife, forged from a single block of bronze-like metal; with a   
twenty-centimeter long and twisted blade that resembled a flame, that left the   
rest of its length to be used as a crude handle.  
  
The manufacture was simple to say the least and, although the blade seemed sharp   
as a sheet of paper, its whole appearance was more the work of an amateur than   
the one of real craftsmanship.  
  
The only special sign that the weapon seemed to have was a strange writing all   
along the flaming blade, deeply carved in the metal and in a language she wasn't   
able to read or understand.  
  
They were like hieroglyphics to her, not the ones she had seen in old movies   
like 'The Mummy'; but as crude as the rest of the knife, as if they had been   
made by a child.  
  
Egoyan looked at her intently, with that vulture-like smile again on his lips   
and motioned for her to take the weapon in her hands. "Take it out of the box,   
my dear. Feel its weight in your hands."  
  
A little doubtfully at first, Faith held the box in her left hand and touched   
the metallic surface of the knife with the fingertips of her right one.  
  
And then she yanked them away, as if it was burning her.  
  
"What have you felt?" the old man asked, in a haunting tone.  
  
"It-it..." she shook her head in amazement, her brown eyes fixed on the golden   
knife with magnetic intensity. "It was vibrating, almost as if it was..." she   
shook her head in wonder and closed her eyes, trying to find the right words,   
"...singing to me."   
  
"Take it," he insisted. "Take it and hold it, Faith."  
  
Licking her lips with nervousness, Faith reached out for the knife once more and   
this time took it into her right hand by its handle, taking it out of the box   
and holding it as carefully as if it was alive.  
  
She felt again what she had felt the first time, the shaking as if it was alive   
and wanted to get free from her grasp. The tickling in her hand that was quickly   
transmitted to her arm and the rest of her body, and the music... a haunting   
melody of Oriental tones, sounding almost at the edge of her consciousness like   
an illusion, making her understand somehow that she was the only one hearing it.  
  
The tickling sensation faded away, replaced by a beating one as if that   
inanimate object had a heart of its own and it would be coming back to life in   
her hands. And then, in front of her own brown eyes, the writings on the blade   
of the knife seemed to melt, as if the hard metallic surface had the consistency   
of a pool of water.  
  
Then they rearranged by themselves into something she was able to read. Simple   
and ordinary English.  
  
"You who hold this sacred blade," she read in loud voice, turning the knife to   
finish the legend on the other side, "know that you are the Chosen One."  
  
She raised her brown eyes to Egoyan's icy blue ones in wonder and question.   
"What does this mean?"  
  
The old man in wheelchair smiled with predatory delight. "That means that the   
sacred dagger of Adjanti, the demon killer, recognizes you as its true bearer,"   
he said, reciting the words as if he was directly quoting them from a book, "for   
it can only be borne by a true Slayer."   
  
She smiled, her eyes still captivated by the reflection of the fire in the   
polished surface of the dagger's blade. "And what can it do, exactly?"  
  
"What its name says," he explained to her, "it kills demons and, my dear, that's   
the only way you can get your Xander back."  
  
"What are you talking about?" she practically exclaimed, turning her head around   
to look at him at the mere sound of her childe's name.  
  
The old man sighed once more and turned his chair around, wheeling himself away   
from her and making the brunette Slayer stand up to follow him. "Xander Harris   
is an abomination, a mistake of nature," he said, quickly raising his hand to   
stop her obvious protest at his offensive words.  
  
"Don't misunderstand me, please – what I mean is that he shouldn't be as   
powerful as he is. The combination of his vampire and Immortal abilities makes   
him almost a demi-god, a being too powerful to be allowed to even exist."  
  
The old Chess Player paused. "I doubt he understands it, but..." he stopped by   
the chess-board to look at the small figures on it with an absent expression,   
and for a short second he seemed to be a thousand miles away, "...his fate   
wasn't meant to be that one."  
  
Faith looked at him with intrigued expression; she knew with absolute, almost   
maniacal, certainty that there was something that the old man was hiding from   
her. Something that he didn't want her to know. But, there was no way she was   
able to figure what it was.  
  
"As long as he's so powerful you won't have a chance to bring him back to your   
side. That why I've given you that present, darling. Use it," he looked at her   
from under his ivory-white brow, "but do so wisely."  
  
"And," Faith shook the dagger, "what am I supposed to do with this?"  
  
Egoyan seemed sincerely surprised. "Really, dear! I thought that was pretty   
obvious," he explained with a smile that was like a razor, thin, cold and   
dangerous. "You'll have to plunge it into his heart."  
  
~~~~~~  
  
Michael took a short second to check his entire appearance in the vanity mirror   
of his room and found, much to the boost of his own ego, that he liked what he   
saw there.  
  
The black Armani suit and the deep blue shirt looked damn good on his slightly   
lanky and athletic body. His Italian leather shoes and his expensive gold Rolex   
identified him as a wealthy man with elegant taste, and even his neatly combed   
light-brown hair had each one of its little members into their right places.  
  
In his modest opinion, he just rocked.  
  
"And now," he said while opening the closet to choose an adequate tie, "la piéce   
de résistancé."  
  
Brushing her teeth and covering her beautiful body with a fluffy pink bathrobe,   
a large towel rolled up on top of her head to help her long and wet mane of hair   
to dry, Rachel had to make a deep effort not to burst out in laughter when she   
came out of the bathroom.  
  
Because her lover was going through his seeming endless collection of ties, as   
he tonelessly hummed James Brown's 'Sex Machine' and swayed his hips at the   
rhythm of the song.  
  
"You know," she said to his back, "if you were just a little more full of   
yourself, I think you would explode. Is that a French-only quality or   
something?"  
  
"Who, moi?" he offered her a wicked smile over his shoulder. "Non, you're   
mistaking me for Spike. He is the one full of himself, I'm just conscious of my   
enormous physical charm, chèrie."  
  
She limited her response to the rising of an incredulous eyebrow, and got close   
enough to him to lay a hand possessively on his right ass-cheek. "You just don't   
forget that all that enormous... charm is for me only, OK loverboy?"  
  
Michael's wicked smile just grew wider. "Are you going to go all jealous and   
possessive on me, Rach? Because I may even enjoy that, you know I love to see   
you..." he wiggled his eyebrows, "...unleashed."  
  
Rachel looked at him seriously. "Remember that there is Latin blood running   
through my veins, and that we Spanish women don't like to play some games."  
  
The French Immortal rolled his dark blue eyes. "Yes, you don't have to tell me,   
I was there in 1808 during the Spanish War of Independence," he whistled in   
admiration "Boy, those women knew how to make a French guy run!"  
  
Chuckling in amusement, Rachel took the tie he had chosen and put it around the   
collar of his shirt, careful and lovingly lacing the knot around his neck. "You   
know I love you, don't you?"  
  
He arched his brow, surprised and not knowing where that had come from. "Of   
course I do, mon amour."  
  
He tilted his head to one side and raised his hands to take her wrist and,   
caressing the soft skin of her arms, gently took her hands away from his tie,   
placing a soft and loving kiss first on her left palm and then on her right one.   
"And I've always loved you, right from the beginning."  
  
She looked at him with her soulful brown eyes filled with emotion and, for a   
short instant, it seemed to the French Immortal that she was going to start   
crying. "So then why did we have to wait seventy long years to act on it?"  
  
He shrugged and shook his head, sighing. "I guess we're not as smart as we'd   
like to believe," he told her with a soft smile. Then he grimaced, and kissed   
her on the forehead. "And now, my love, I have to go out."  
  
"Wait a second," Rachel asked him, finishing up lacing the knot of his tie and   
smoothing carefully its silk surface. Then she noticed the small drawings on it,   
and frowned with a quirky smile.  
  
"Marvin the Martian?" she recognized the Loony Tunes' character.  
  
"What can I say?" he shrugged helplessly, with that wicked and playful smile   
that was so his. "I'm a child at heart, chèrie."  
  
The brunette Immortal just shook her head with a resigned look and kissed him   
slowly and lovingly on the lips, allowing herself the pleasure of merging her   
body with his for a short moment.  
  
"Come on," she slapped him on the ass playfully, "you're going to be late."  
  
Michael just groaned and took his heavy black coat, checking that his rapier was   
hidden in its place and putting it on. Then, exiting his bedroom and walking out   
of the private area, he knocked on Xander's door, calling the name of his   
friend's girlfriend. "Cordelia? I'm going out, do you want me to take you to the   
college?"  
  
"Sure!" the young brunette said as she opened the door, still putting on her   
jacket. "Thank you, Michael. I'm already late."  
  
With a welcoming nod, the French Immortal helped her to put on her coat and,   
after grabbing her purse, the two of them walked out into the warehouse's main   
area, crossing paths with Spike as the bleached-hair vampire walked to his own   
bedroom.  
  
"Hey, Spike," Michael called his attention. "Are you alright?"  
  
Spike just looked at him darkly and, for a moment, none of them was very sure if   
he was going to smile or rip Michael's throat out with his bare hands.   
  
"I know you 'ad somethin' to do with my little automotive problem, Frenchie," he   
finally told the French Immortal.  
  
Michael just chuckled nervously, rolling his eyes as if he didn't know what the   
bleached-hair vampire was talking about, and failing miserably in his intent.  
  
"I just want ya to know that I plan on gettin' back at ya for this, mate. The   
Cowboy and you should begin lookin' over your shoulders from now on," Spike   
said.  
  
"Geez, Spike, I so don't know what you're talking about..." Michael shrugged   
with an innocent expression.  
  
The British vampire just raised a cool and dark eyebrow. "Consider yourself   
warned, mate. By the way," he added as he began to walk towards his own bedroom,   
"the Slayer and the wanker are 'ere."  
  
"I already know that," he said, "I felt the 'buzz' a couple of minutes ago."  
  
"Really?" he asked with an incredulous expression. "And 'as your gut also told   
ya that she's dragged Xander into the bleedin' lab, to 'ave a private   
conversation?"  
  
The French Immortal frowned at hearing this, and his bleached-hair friend just   
shrugged before disappearing into the interior of his room. "If you want to know   
my opinion, there's some very black clouds on the 'orizon, mate."  
  
Cordelia looked at the light-brown haired man with a worried expression. "What   
is that supposed to mean?"  
  
Michael half-closed his eyes, giving her a dark look. "Let's go see."  
  
Not waiting for the young woman to follow him, Michael quickly walked the   
distance to the lab with long and decided steps finding that, effectively,   
Xander was already in deep conversation with Buffy and Angel.  
  
"Hey guys," he saluted them, almost immediately feeling the tense air between   
them; and the worried and almost severe expression on the blonde Slayer's   
beautiful face, when she returned his salute with a sharp nod.  
  
"I heard that you were here and, as I was going to take Cordy to class I was   
wondering if you wanted me to take you with us," he said.  
  
"No, thanks Michael," Buffy replied a little sternly. "We have something to talk   
about with Xander."  
  
Michael looked at his friend and the young vampire just shrugged at him and,   
although his smile was wide and sincere, the French Immortal didn't miss the   
look of worry in his brown eyes.  
  
"Hi, Buffy," Cordelia finally greeted her friend. "Aren't you going to go to   
class now?"  
  
The Slayer rolled her eyes. "I guess I'll pass today."  
  
"Really?" Xander exchanged a short yet meaningful look with Michael out of the   
corner of his eye. As the French Immortal motioned Xander to join him away from   
them, the brunette young woman engaged her other two friends in meaningless   
chat.  
  
"How was your night?" she smiled sweetly at them.  
  
Elsewhere in the room, the French Immortal started to get worried. "What's going   
on, mon frère?" Michael asked his friend and pupil in a low voice  
  
Xander took a short look at Buffy out of the corner of his eye and sighed,   
shaking his head. "I had a word yesterday with Robert, and it seems that someone   
leaked the facts of Sunday's operation to the Watcher's Council."  
  
"I'll be damned..." Michael growled succinctly, passing a hand over his face.   
"OK, I guess we still can control this – but what are we going to tell them?"  
  
Xander smiled sadly and shook his head in denial. "The truth I guess, I just   
hope she can accept it. But I thought you had a date with Joyce."  
  
"Nothing that can't be cancelled," he said. "And you need my help more right   
now."  
  
"No," Xander told him. "I have to do this myself, Michael. It's my   
responsibility."  
  
The French Immortal shook his head in wonder and laid his hands on Xander's   
shoulders, looking intensely at his deep eyes. "I've always said that there was   
something really tough inside you, little chicken."  
  
The young vampire groaned and rolled his eyes in annoyance, before looking   
around to see if anyone had heard his friend. "Please don't call me that,   
Michael. I know it's a Japanese legend – Momotaro, the peach-boy and all that –   
but it's embarrassing."  
  
Michael couldn't help but chuckle. "Well, mon frère, he was a demon slayer."  
  
"Still, it's a ridiculous name."  
  
Sharing warm smiles, they looked at each other in silence for a short moment   
until, finally, Michael sighed and shook his head in wonder, knowing when he had   
to let his pupil fly under his own power. "I just hope you know what you're   
doing, Xander."  
  
The young vampire just shrugged, taking a sideways look at the blonde Slayer;   
and, even when it seemed that both Buffy and Angel were deeply engrossed in   
Cordelia's endless and pointless ranting, she returned it in silence, their eyes   
locked for an tense moment. "I hope so too, Michael. I really hope so too."  
  
~~~~~~  
  
A few moments later, after Michael had finally gone away alone as Cordelia   
decided to stay, Xander returned to his friends' side and propped himself onto   
one of the desks, crossing his legs.  
  
"Well, Buffy, you wanna tell me what's on your mind, or do you prefer to wait   
for Giles?" he asked her.  
  
"How do you know he's going to come?" the blonde Slayer asked, with a suddenly   
suspicious tone.  
  
Xander shrugged, removing importance to the matter. "Just an educated guess," he   
said, looking straight at Buffy with his calm eyes. "Well, what's it gonna be?"  
  
Buffy finally sighed, shaking her blonde head, and turned to face Cordelia. "I   
would like to talk with Xander alone."  
  
The brunette just raised an eyebrow coolly, crossing her arms over her chest and   
leaning back against one of the desks, stating very clearly with her body   
language that she didn't have any intention of going anywhere.  
  
"I guess all of us can have hopes," she said simply.  
  
Arching her brow, the blonde Slayer looked at her boyfriend in search for help   
but found, much to her own surprise, that Angel limited his supporting actions   
to a lopsided half-smile as he watched the whole scene with his hands crossed in   
front of his lap. He shrugged and tilted his head to one side, motioning for her   
to continue.  
  
"Buffy?" Xander called her attention.  
  
The Slayer finally shook her head and, after a short moment to gather her errant   
thoughts, offered the manila file to the young vampire. "Can you explain this to   
me?"  
  
Raising an eyebrow, Xander took the offered item and flipped slowly through the   
pages and pictures there, until he closed it with a tired sigh. He shut his eyes   
and massaged the bridge of his nose, finding that the images, the blood, the   
bodies, were carved inside his eyelids, the same way that they were in his soul   
and in his nightmares.  
  
For a second, the metallic and lustful taste of the blood came back to his mouth   
as if it was still fresh on his lips. He felt as if he were drowning in it.  
  
"What do you want me to say, Buffy?" the vampire asked in a ragged growl, not   
bothering in trying to feign surprise.  
  
"That you didn't do it," she told him almost in a whisper. "That you didn't have   
anything to do with that."  
  
Xander lowered his eyes for a second, letting them run over the rough surface of   
the file, before fixing them back on his friend's figure with magnetic   
intensity. "Do you want me to lie?"  
  
Buffy shook her head. "No... I..." She hid her face in her hands and took a long   
and silent breath, trying to calm her confused feelings. Fear. Angst. Worry.   
Pain. Anger... she just couldn't file them under one single category.  
  
"Why?" she simply asked after a moment of silence.  
  
"What is she talking about?" Cordelia asked him softly, a trembling note of   
worry in her voice. When Xander didn't answer her and his eyes wandered away   
from hers after sending a doubtful, almost afraid, look at her, Cordelia reached   
out for the file, taking it from the young vampire's hands before he could do   
anything to prevent it.  
  
"Cordy, no!" he exclaimed, jumping off the desk to retrieve the file. "Give me   
that!"  
  
"Xander!" she practically shouted, keeping the file out of his reach. "Is this   
about what happened last Sunday? What you told me about?"  
  
Buffy looked at the couple's exchange with surprise and got even more surprised   
when he saw the expression in the young vampire's eyes. They was centered on   
Cordelia, incredibly large and sad, scared, desperate.  
  
He nodded slowly and looked at the floor, as if he was accepting some horrible   
fate. "Please, Cordy," he begged her, "give me those pictures back."  
  
Cordelia looked at him for a short moment, then at his extended hand and then at   
the closed file in her hands.  
  
"If I open this," she said slowly and in a low tone, "what will I see?"  
  
The young vampire looked at her, and licked his own lips. Then, with the   
saddest, most heart-breaking expression she had ever seen in a man, he shook his   
head and lowered his eyes to the floor once more, unable to see the expression   
of her hazel eyes. "You'll see me. What I do. What I am."  
  
Cordelia opened the file and looked at it. Xander closed his eyes, letting   
himself fall back against the desk as his shoulders sank down in defeat. He had   
been ready to face Buffy, Giles, Angel, whoever – but with Cordelia... he wasn't   
sure he could make it.  
  
He knew that, at this very moment, his whole life was in her slender hands.  
  
The brunette's face went pale, the breath was cut short on her lips and she had   
to cover her mouth with her hand to choke down a sob.  
  
So much blood. So much death. The open wounds called to her like obscene mouths,   
the torn flesh turned into swollen labia, the insides of the bodies exposed to   
the air and the objective of the camera.  
  
It was the coldness of the pictures that affected her the most, the way they had   
been captured by the coroner's eye as if they were nothing more than pieces of   
meat, impersonal objects to be examined, cataloged and studied.  
  
They had been real people, and now they were nothing more than corpses. Without   
names. Without pasts. Without futures.  
  
And the man she loved most in all the world had made them that way. He had   
killed them.  
  
Closing the file with trembling hands, she raised her eyes to him, seeing his   
figure blurred by the tears threatening to come out of them.  
  
The dichotomy between the man she knew, the one that held her naked body at   
night, that filled her with so much tenderness and love, and the one that was   
responsible for these killings, the ruthless vampire, the merciless warrior, was   
so strong that she wasn't able to reconcile those two parts together as she   
thought she had been able to do before.  
  
Maybe it was that she had never really seen the real evidence of his work, that   
she had never had to face the crude results of his job, maybe it was that she   
wasn't as strong or hard as she had believed herself to be...   
  
She didn't know, but, just for a second, she felt the need to, as Buffy had done   
mere minutes ago, ask him why. To know the reasons. The know the truth.  
  
She felt that she didn't really know him. Was he the killer that the photos   
showed, or the lover that had melted her heart? Was he the man or the vampire?   
The human or the monster?  
  
Maybe both. Maybe neither.  
  
Leaving the file on the desk as if its mere contact burned her skin, fighting   
down the tears as if they were poisoning her, Cordelia looked straight at him,   
at his soulful and now darkened brown eyes.  
  
At the fighter behind them, at the demon, at the man and, beyond all of them, at   
the lost and lonely boy he had once been, that still lived in a hidden, dark   
part of himself.  
  
And, as if she could see straight into his soul, she knew and she understood. It   
frightened her as much as it surprised her. But the ease with which she was able   
to submerge herself into his being, the lack of barriers that appeared in front   
of her as she dived into the most twisted and inaccessible nooks of his heart   
and soul was practically absolute.  
  
She saw the pain and the resolve. The shame and the strength. The glory of the   
vampire and the man linked one to the other into an endless, indissoluble single   
being. As if she was able to see all that had happened that night through his   
eyes, to feel what he had felt, to see it all as he had seen it, she understood.  
  
The fear of his own impulses, the hate and the horror towards the monsters he   
had faced, the exhilarating sensation of the hunt, the worry for the lives of   
the innocents at stake...   
  
It was dark, it was overwhelming, it was more than what she was able to bear.   
And finally, Cordelia felt her own mind slipping away engulfed by a fog that   
obscured all her senses, making her knees go weak and beginning to fall down to   
the floor, while a moan escaped her lips.  
  
Almost immediately, her three friends moved to help her, but it was Xander's   
unnatural speed that gave him the edge and he was able to take the falling   
brunette into his arms before she actually hit the ground.  
  
"Cordy?" he called her, his heart beating fast and furious with worry as he   
checked her pulse. It was as fast as his was, but strong and steady and,   
although she was ghastly pale and her breathing was ragged and elaborated, she   
seemed to be all right otherwise.  
  
"What's happened to her?" Buffy asked him, leaning over his shoulder as the   
young vampire kneeled softly to take Cordelia fully into his arms and carry her   
to a more comfortable place.  
  
"I don't know," Xander told the Slayer without looking at her. It was a lie, of   
course, but a mild one.  
  
The truth was that he had felt something strange, something that he couldn't   
define or explain, as if he had been suddenly able to see himself through her   
eyes. As if he was inside her and she inside him, the two of them mixed into   
one, not knowing when their separate beings ended or began.  
  
It was strange, wonderful and scary at the same time, and he didn't know what to   
think of it.  
  
"She seems to have fainted," Angel said, checking the young brunette's pulse   
again when Xander gently laid her on the larger couch of the rest area, "but I   
think she's alright now."  
  
The older vampire looked at his blood-brother and noticed with worry that, as he   
looked down at his fallen love, he seemed to be completely lost and understood   
that what was about to happen was going to mark an important difference in their   
relationship.  
  
There was something at the back of his mind, a name, a definition – something   
that explained what he had just seen happening between his two friends, but that   
he wasn't able to correctly point out.  
  
A word popped into his mind then but, shaking his head, Angel dismissed it. It   
was just impossible.  
  
"Buffy," he called his own girlfriend, coming back to the present, "we should   
postpone this for later."  
  
The blonde Slayer nodded slowly, her hazel eyes fixed with worry on Cordelia's   
pale face. "Yeah, I guess we..."  
  
"No," Xander cut her off with a ragged voice, his eyes never leaving his lover's   
closed ones as he softly caressed her hair as if she was a resting child.   
"Whatever you need to know, just ask it now, Buffy."  
  
Buffy looked at him in silence for a short moment, trying to find any sign of   
her dear old friend in the man that, in front of her, tried to not show how   
worried he was for the woman he loved.  
  
There were signs of the old Xander in him, and sometimes she was able to see   
them; the way he cared, the way he smiled, the way he laughed and loved and made   
them all better people just with his presence.  
  
But at the same time, she wasn't able to figure where the other part of him had   
come from. She knew it wasn't due to the demon inside him – the fighter, the   
leader of that team of ruthless hunters that the Archangels seemed to be, had   
been born after the horrible happenings of nearly four years before.  
  
Or maybe it had been there all the time, and she had been the one who hadn't   
been able to see it previously. Buffy wasn't sure about anything anymore.  
  
Xander was her friend. Michael and the rest were her friends, she wanted to   
believe that. God help her, she was even beginning to like Spike.  
  
But what she had seen in those pictures, the cold description of the wounds in   
the coroner's report, were deeply etched into her mind as if they had been   
carved with fire onto her brain.  
  
Entry bullet-hole... massive blood loss... tearing of the inner tissue...   
  
So much... too much... it wasn't right.  
  
"Why?" she asked him again, as if that single word summarized all her confused   
feelings.  
  
Xander sighed deeply, like a balloon losing all its air and, after a short   
moment to gather all his thoughts, got up from the couch, gently and amorously   
covering Cordelia with a blanket and then placing a soft kiss on her forehead.  
  
"What do you want me to say, Buffy?" he said as he walked back to the lab   
without waiting to see if his friends followed him or not. "Do you want to hear   
something that eases your pain, or do you prefer the truth?"  
  
Like a spectator at a tennis match, Angel sat in a chair, following the exchange   
between his girlfriend and his blood-brother with his eyes. He didn't like how   
things looked, and had the heartfelt suspicion that nothing good would come out   
of this conversation.  
  
Nevertheless, he also knew that it wasn't his call, it was Buffy's and Xander's.   
And, no matter how much he hated it, he couldn't do anything more than to watch   
and pray for them.  
  
"I want the truth," Buffy stated, with less sureness than what she intended. "I   
think I deserve it."  
  
Xander didn't answer her immediately; he just sent a curious look at her over   
his shoulder and grabbed of one of the phones, quickly dialing the number of   
Kyle's private extension.  
  
After a short moment, the tall Texan took it in his room and answered the call   
with a lazy, "Whassup?"  
  
"Kyle?" Xander said. "I'm in the lab, could you come here for a moment?"  
  
The young vampire placed the phone carefully on its cradle, and turned around to   
face the Slayer. "The truth?" he shook his head. "The truth is plain and simple,   
Buffy: we did what had to be done."  
  
"Oh, yeah?" she asked, crossing her arms over her chest and leaning back against   
one of the desks. "And who decided what had to be done, Xander? You?"  
  
Nodding slowly, Xander fixed his dark brown eyes on her. "Yes, Buffy. I did it,   
it was my responsibility and duty as the leader of this team, and I accept it   
with all charges and consequences. There were innocent lives at stake and our   
job was to save them, period. And that's what we did."  
  
"For God's sake, Xander," Buffy said, finding herself unable to hold the intense   
stare of his eyes. "They were human beings! You killed them, and you sound as if   
you're proud of it! Don't tell me you are, please."  
  
"Of killing them?" he shook his head in denial. "No, I'm not proud of that, but   
you won't hear me asking excuses for it, either."  
  
He walked close to her, looking down at her with the advantage that his superior   
height gave him. "What I'm proud of is my friends, the members of my team, of   
what we did and the lives we saved. Yes, Buffy, they were human beings and we   
killed them."  
  
Buffy turned around, not really wanting to hear what he was saying, but Xander   
didn't stop, knowing that he had to state it clearly, for better or worse. "We   
did it with swords and bullets, with fangs and claws, with technology and magic,   
but I guess that the exact mechanics of it don't really matter right now. It's   
the intentions that count, and you have to believe that ours were the right   
ones."  
  
Buffy shook her head, passing a tired hand through her blonde mane. "And that's   
all? They were the bad guys, you were the good guys – they died, you won, and   
that's it?"  
  
Xander arched his brow, considering it. "As a résumé, I've heard worse."  
  
She just sent him an annoyed look. "This is serious, Xander."  
  
"Are you hearing me laughing, by any chance?" he answered her with a sour look.  
  
"You want to make it look simple," Buffy insisted passionately, turning around   
to look straight at his eyes, "but it's not simple at all. There are some rules   
and I know they're hazy and complicated, and yes, sometimes very hard to follow,   
but we have to follow them. And if there's one rule I have clear, it's the one   
that says that we're the good guys and that we don't kill human beings, unless   
it is absolutely and impossibly unavoidable."  
  
Xander half-closed his eyes, boring with his gaze into her. "They had guns,   
Buffy, what were we supposed to..."  
  
"Oh, please," she protested, "don't you even try to play the self-defense card   
with me, Xander! I've seen you fight, I've seen what your team's able to do –   
you and I know that a bunch of guys with Uzis are no match for the Archangels.   
That... brotherhood, or whatever they were, never had a chance against you."  
  
The young vampire remained silent and finally leaned back against one of the   
desks. "What do you really want me to say then, Buffy? What do you want to   
hear?"  
  
"A justification, Xander. The real reason why you and your group killed   
thirty-seven human beings last Sunday," she told him.  
  
Her hazel eyes were clear and sincere; she wanted him to give it to her, to hear   
something from him that allowed her to rest peacefully at night, knowing that   
everything was in place and that there was a place for everything.  
  
But Xander Harris knew that the world didn't work that way, and it hurt his   
heart and soul to be the one to make her understand it.  
  
"It had to be done," he stated, not wanting to raise the tone of his voice, but   
feeling the need to defend his beliefs and actions.  
  
He continued, "You may not want to hear or believe it, Buffy, but that's how   
things are. Those people were scum – they were going to sacrifice twenty   
children, do you hear me? Twenty children! And for what? So they could be some   
goddamn liege-lords in a new creation, while the rest of us rotted in Hell."  
  
He looked at her with all the intensity of his brown eyes, pinning her to the   
floor with his gaze. "We. Did. What. Had. To. Be. Done."  
  
"No!" Buffy shouted, not believing her ears. "That's not how we do things,   
Xander. We're not God, we don't have the right to decide who lives and who   
dies!"  
  
"Then who?" he asked with a snort. "The police? The courts?"  
  
She nodded eagerly. "Well, that's supposed to be the American way."  
  
"Great," he shook his head in amazement, "twelve people so stupid that they   
aren't able to get out of jury duty, manipulated by legal snakes without ethics   
that do anything for money."   
  
Xander snorted. "Yeah, try explaining to them that a group of psychos was trying   
to bring forth a demon from the pits of Hell. How much time do you think the   
lawyers would have needed to put them back on the street?"   
  
Buffy massaged her temples tiredly, trying to erase some of the tension   
accumulated there without having any success at all. "There's a word for the   
kind of action you're suggesting, Xander."  
  
"Yes," he agreed. "Justice."  
  
"No," she shook her head, the hazel eyes bright with passion, "it's vigilante."  
  
"Who's a vigilante?" Kyle asked while walking into the lab, his right hand full   
with a little mountain of peanuts that he was putting into his mouth one by one.   
The tall Texan looked at each one of his friends clueless, as he munched the   
peanuts like a happy elephant.  
  
"Kyle," Xander ignored his question and signaled to the main computer, "please,   
boot this up and load last Sunday's operation files."  
  
The raven-haired man blinked repeatedly as if he hadn't heard right and, after   
giving a short look at Buffy and Angel, looked at Xander as if he had gone   
completely crazy. "Are you sure you wanna do that? I mean, I thought that-"  
  
"Just do it," the young vampire practically growled at him, turning the   
operator's chair around so Kyle could sit on it.  
  
The tall Texan shook his head once more and sighed, slapping his hands clean   
over a paper basket. "OK, Xand, you're the boss."  
  
Sitting down in front of the computer, clearing his throat and cracking his   
knuckles, Kyle introduced the password to disable the running screensaver and,   
making his fingers fly over the keyboard, quickly called up the requested files   
until they appeared on the screen.  
  
"It's a case closed, so they're encrypted," he warned Xander, "I'll need a   
minute to make them readable."  
  
"What are you doing?" Buffy asked, getting close so she could see the screen   
over Kyle's shoulder, followed in silence by Angel's dark figure.  
  
Xander sat on the edge of the desk, right beside the computer, and looked at her   
patiently. "It's obvious that I'm not succeeding in making you understand my   
point of view, so I'm going to show you how we, how I saw it, Buffy. I can't   
guarantee you'll like or even understand it, but I swear it's the truth. It's   
all I can give you, Buff."  
  
She nodded slowly. "It's the only thing I ask."  
  
"OK then," he said, looking at the screen to see it the data was finally   
appearing on it. As the first documents and pictures began to fill the large   
screen, Xander closed his eyes for a moment.  
  
Trying to find the strength inside himself to fight that battle, the most   
difficult one he had faced in the last few years, the one that he wasn't sure he   
would be able to win.  
  
He knew what he had done, and he knew why he had done it. But although he knew   
that under the same circumstances, he would do it again – in his innermost core,   
the doubts flooded into the nooks and corners of his soul as they used to do in   
the darkest hours of the night.  
  
He questioned himself, the sincerity of his acts, the real reasons between them.   
Had he done the right thing? Was Buffy right? Had there been another way to do   
it that he had ignored, one he hadn't seen or that he hadn't wanted to see?  
  
As he raised his eyes to look at Buffy and saw the hard stares of her hazel orbs   
fixed on him, he felt the cold ball of icy uncertainty establishing in his   
belly. He just didn't know.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
"Are you alright?" Carol Prestwick asked Joyce, introducing her head into the   
small bathroom of the middle-aged woman's office through the narrow crack of the   
opening.  
  
"I heard some noises," the younger brown-haired woman said with a grimace that   
was half-worry and half-loathing, "and you sounded pretty sick."  
  
Joyce shut her eyes and counted slowly from one to ten to calm down, and avoid   
herself the embarrassment of making a scene. She was wondering all the while,   
why she had chosen Carol to replace the late Harold Moyer as her assistant at   
the art gallery where she worked.  
  
Not that she wasn't efficient at her work; the problem was that she was also   
annoying, restless and wouldn't close her mouth even if someone dunked her head   
into a bucket of water. Which was an idea she was playing with more and more   
often, recently.  
  
"I'm alright, Carol," she said in a barely controlled voice, "something I had   
for breakfast must have disagreed with my stomach."  
  
"OK," the younger woman nodded, "I'm out here if you need me for anything. By   
the way!" she added as an afterthought, smiling with a strange expression of   
complicity, "There's a man asking for you. A real dish, if you wanna know my   
opinion."  
  
=As if saying anything to the contrary would make any difference,= Joyce thought   
to herself, managing to give her a tight smile. "Thanks, Carol. I'll be out in a   
minute."  
  
When the younger woman finally took her head out and closed the door, Joyce   
groaned, rolling her eyes before taking a good look at her reflection in the   
mirror. She'd been feeling sick the whole morning and, although she'd had just a   
very light breakfast, it seemed to be on bad terms with her stomach and she had   
just lost it all into the lavatory.  
  
The last time vomiting had been a fun activity was in her college years, and it   
had involved too much booze and disco music, not food poisoning.  
  
=Or maybe it's just the flu,= she thought, feeling her entire body aching as it   
hadn't done in years.  
  
Anyway, she was a grown woman and she wasn't going to let a little morning   
sea-sickness overcome her. So she just freshened herself up and, after checking   
her general appearance in the mirror, came out the bathroom in search for   
Carol's tasty dish, retrieving her purse and coat in the process.  
  
She found Michael Deveraux in the exposition gallery, attentively examining one   
of the pictures with a small frown on his handsome face, now and then tilting   
his head to one side.  
  
"It's titled 'Portrait of Angst, Three'," she told him with a soft smile. "It's   
the work of one of our more talented local patrons. Do you like it?"  
  
With a tight smile on his lips, Michael just arched his brow and shrugged   
softly. "I don't know what to say," he told the middle-aged woman with a   
chuckle, turning around to look back at the painting.  
  
It was composed of a series of black and white spots on a crimson surface and,   
as a conclusion, someone had glued a used fork right in the middle of it.  
  
If he got close enough, Michael thought he was able to see some traces of   
spaghetti still on it. He shook his head in wonder. "I guess I'm still trapped   
in the Impressionist era, I just can't understand this modern art. If you can   
call this art."  
  
Joyce smiled softly, and shook her head. "The artist is the niece of the   
gallery's owner," she confessed to him in a secretive tone. "But don't tell that   
to anyone."  
  
"Well, nepotism is universal," he said with a smile, before stopping to take a   
good look at his interlocutor. "Are you alright, Mrs. Summers? You look a little   
pale."  
  
"I'm alright, thanks for your concern. And it's Joyce, Mr. Deveraux."  
  
The French Immortal nodded slowly, taking her hand in his to shake it. "Très   
bien, it's Michael then."  
  
"Why Michael?" she asked as they began to walk to the gallery's exit. "I mean,   
why not use your real name?"  
  
He shrugged, raising an eyebrow. "I don't know, someone began to call me that a   
long time ago. During the Civil War, if I remember correctly. And I guess I've   
just grown accustomed to it."  
  
"The Civil War? The American Civil War?" she asked in amazement. At the French   
Immortal's nod of affirmation she smiled with wonder, shaking her blonde head.   
"Even after all the things I've seen here, all the things Buffy and Rupert have   
told me, I still find it hard to believe this kind of thing. You look so...   
young."  
  
Michael chuckled softly. "You can believe me, when I say that these old bones of   
mine... they have all the weight of my 300-plus years on them."  
  
He shrugged, taking a short look around himself. "Sometimes I don't know if this   
thing, this immortality is a gift or a curse, Joyce. This world changes so fast,   
and it seems to change faster and faster with each passing century. I..."  
  
He paused. "Sometimes I feel that it has all just passed me by, I..." he shook   
his head once more, cutting himself off and chuckling self-consciously as they   
resumed their walk. "Well, I do not want to get introspective and bore you."  
  
"No, please," she told him with an understanding smile, "I want to know all   
these things. Buffy will have to go through them all, and I want to help her as   
long as I can. She won't talk to me about them, she doesn't like to do so, but I   
need to know. Please, continue."  
  
The French Immortal looked at the blonde woman in amazement and, although he   
guessed Joyce had the same flaws as any other normal human being, he thought   
that Buffy was lucky to have her as her mother. She was lucky...   
  
He blinked a few moments, closing his dark blue eyes; so much time had passed,   
that he sometimes had problems remembering his own mother's name.  
  
"Do you still want to eat something?" he asked her. "If you're not feeling well,   
we can leave it for later."  
  
"No, it's OK," Joyce nodded. "Truth is, I'm beginning to feel a little hungry.   
There's a restaurant near here, we could go there and get something light to   
eat."  
  
"Sounds good to me," Michael agreed as they crossed the street to the mentioned   
restaurant.  
  
It looked like a nice place, with some metallic tables and chairs outside so the   
customers could enjoy the usually nice Californian weather while they consumed   
their meals, and a large window so the ones in the interior would have, at   
least, a good view of the street.  
  
There was a park nearby and, as it was a clear day in contrast with clouded last   
few ones, it was full of life and laughter with young mothers, little children   
and working people enjoying the weak December sun during their lunch hour.  
  
As said, a very nice place.  
  
Michael was about to put his foot on the tarmac to cross the street, when Joyce   
grabbed him by the shoulder. She yanked him back, just in time to stop him from   
being run over by a shiny and brand new silver Aston Martin, that seemed to   
emerge out of nowhere.  
  
The British sports car stopped with a screech of punished tires a mere two   
inches from Michael's knees, its whole frame shaken by the kinetic of its   
movement.  
  
Startled by the suddenness of it all, for a short moment Michael wasn't able to   
do anything more than stare at the deeply tinted glass of the windshield, trying   
to discern something through its pitch black surface without success.  
  
Still, the French Immortal felt strangely drawn to it, feeling his heart beating   
at a fast and wild pace, as if something or somebody was calling him from the   
other side.  
  
The driver, whoever he was, made the engine roar twice in a menacingly way, as   
if he was trying to warn him. 'Get outta my way, or I'll turn you into an   
omelet.'  
  
Strange.  
  
Michael stepped back to the walkway and the Aston Martin resumed its way,   
quickly gaining speed and disappearing around the nearest corner. "Are you   
alright?" Joyce asked him. "You seemed a little out of it."  
  
The French Immortal shook his head in absent-minded denial. "No, I was just... a   
friend of mine liked that kind of car. He..." Michael's expression went from a   
spooked one to a softer one, as he remembered warmly. "He was always saying that   
he would get one, one day."  
  
They finally made it to the restaurant and took a table outside, calling the   
attention of one of the waiters before sitting down.  
  
"Well," Michael said while they waited for their orders, "what do you want to   
know?"  
  
With a thoughtful expression, Joyce looked at him for a brief moment before   
actually answering. "Which side did you fight on?" she asked him. "During the   
Civil War, I mean."  
  
Letting out a wicked smile, Michael shook his head amusedly. "For the one that   
lost, my dear," he told her, barely containing his laughter, "the one that   
lost!"  
  
~~~~~~  
  
Damon parked his car around the corner and, from the safe sanctuary of its   
interior, observed the couple sit down to eat through half-closed eyes.  
  
He was cold inside. It was difficult for him to put his feelings into words at   
that very moment, as they were so opposed that they seemed to belong to two   
completely different people.  
  
He was excited and scared at the same time, he was hooked on the sensation of   
the adrenaline pumping into his whole system like the purest of drugs and   
trembling with a fear that he didn't know where was coming from. He wanted to be   
any other place but this one, and he didn't want to be anywhere else.  
  
Swallowing a thick knot that had formed in his throat, almost choking with it,   
he took a look to his only companion, who was on the passenger's side, patiently   
waiting for his call.  
  
A modified HK MP5A5 submachine-gun with a short M203 PI grenade launcher   
attached to it under its barrel. An instrument of death shining in all its dark   
glory, hard metal and warm plastic tantalizing him, calling him like a siren's   
song.  
  
He had heard of the erotica of weapons before, and he had always found that idea   
plainly laughable till now. But then, this situation was one he hadn't ever,   
ever before been in.  
  
He was going to show his face to Michael Deveraux. He was going to kill Michael   
Deveraux.  
  
He took the submachine-gun and leaned it against his lap as he closed his black   
eyes. He let his head fall backwards and allowed his fingers to trace all the   
hard edges, the cold corners and the dark features of the gun, memorizing all of   
them as if the weapon was a beautiful lover.  
  
He could taste it on his lips. The moment had finally arrived.  
  
God help him. He was going to kill Michael Deveraux.  
  
He was going to kill his own father.  
  
Opening his eyes, Damon didn't need to see their reflection in the rear-view   
mirror to know the expression they held. They were dead eyes. Cold. Emotionless.   
The moment had come.  
  
The young hit man brought back the gun's slide, feeding a round into the chamber   
with a noise that rumbled in the narrow interior of the sports car like thunder.   
Yet, he didn't flinch and his face didn't show any expression at all, as if he   
was detaching from himself.  
  
Getting out of the car, hiding the gun from any external viewer under his large   
cashmere coat, Damon began to cross the street; his black eyes fixed on the   
couple talking on the other side of the road and his finger curved around the   
trigger, aching to pull it.  
  
The moment had come.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
To be continued in DR2 - The Cross of Changes, Book III: Game of survival 


End file.
